One Ring to Desire Him
by Sev Baggins
Summary: Lord of the Rings, mostly a dramatic gap-filler/slightly AU in which the One Ring takes the form of a woman and pursues Frodo Baggins. No sex, slash, gore, or profanity. Rated T for psychological intensity.
1. One Woman to Rule Them All

**So this is a story that I had an idea for that I really wanted to do, triggered by reading "Desire" by British Child. If you would like me to continue, then I shall. :) I actually have it written all the way to RotK, but I'll publish it if it interests anyone.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

A heart forged to destroy could never love. She knew that better than anyone else; her lord created her to be malicious, had melted his own soul through fire, metal, and magic to have her. If anyone loved her it would have been him . . . but he had room for naught other than selfish desire in his heart.

Being a part of him, neither did she.


	2. Pure Tarnish - The Dark Lord Sauron

The Lord of the Rings

OR

The One Ring of Power and

Baggins of Bag End

Sauron had the revelation from deep within to encase his soul in something more ambitious than himself; he could feel his strain to conquer fading away. He had to reignite that passion for the world, his desire to destroy the elves and take the vast lands of Middle Earth for his own. But he also needed the races of the world to fight amongst one another, weaken themselves from the inside.

As he pondered his troubles for hours on end, his orcs sacrificed themselves to a failing war. He cared not for their loss save when he received defeat from their foolishness and weakness, directionless when the leaders and masses were killed. He thought about his finger and studied it as he pondered; he imagined a magnificent, golden ring around it . . . sleek and shimmering, like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Rings. Simple, powerful, compellingly beautiful, mesmerizing. A perfect weapon.

He commanded three to be forged for the elves, seven for the dwarves, and nine for men. In time, he created and monitored the rings' power: thirst for strength and dominance crept into every one of the ringbearers, but the men were sucked into their greed easily. So easily, in fact, that Sauron felt perhaps they wanted power in the same way he did.

Before he enticed them into his servitude, however, he had one thing left to finish.

The Dark Lord poured over his forge, bringing into the fires of Mount Doom only the purest, finest gold. As he worked he stroked the molten metal with his armored finger and murmured a chilling chant. Pieces of his soul trickled into the liquid, tarnishing it with a white-red glow. Once he finished with the soul transfer, he collapsed—weakened—to the ground. The volcano rumbled around him, not caring about his condition. It took eight hours for Sauron to regain consciousness, and longer than that to truly recover from the distribution of his very substance to some other being.

And a being it would be. For not only would this Ring, this One Ring out of twenty rings of Power, carry Sauron's soul: it would exist and act for itself, as an elf or a man, only infinitely more powerful, infinitely more persuasive . . .

Infinitely more beautiful.

The chants to give life to the Ring, or at least the ability for it to transform from Ring to woman and back, were more difficult for Sauron to pronounce. They were far older than most creatures currently to walk the earth, but Sauron knew the language acceptably well. He tied a hundred spells to the metal as it simmered away. Only a fraction of the molten pool of gold would be used to make his Ring, but he cast magic over all of it. He whispered to it, made it his own, told it what they would do together: they would conquer the world. They would know power no one ever dreamed of.

Her day dawned over all the world but Mordor. Mount Doom anticipated the day, spewing endless clouds of ash and smoke to block the barest hints of light from the sky. The orcs did not know, but nature did, as did Sauron. The gold bubbled with anxiety as Sauron reverently clipped a pair of metal tongs around a small scoop. He reached into the molten gold with it, coming back up with the liquid that would make his Ring. He turned and tipped it into the Ring's mold, fitted to his finger. To a man the Ring's mold looked enormous, but to Sauron it seemed small and precious, nothing but perfect.

The gold sizzled and hissed as it settled, still bubbling until it looked semi-solid. Sauron carefully lifted the mold with his huge, armored fingers and laid it in a basin of water. The Ring hissed louder, spewing boiling drops of water to evaporate on the air as the metal molecules calmed, solidifying it into a single, solid piece.

Sauron waited for the Ring to harden fully, then pulled off his armored glove. He reached inside the water with pale, strong fingers and slipped his Ring into his grasp. The Ring stared back at him, suddenly materialized. The new range of senses overwhelmed it, and it hadn't even become human yet. Sauron gently laid it on the nearest smooth surface—a stone anvil, set on the rocks a meter or so below him.

Some minutes passed as the Ring took in its world. It perused the heat of fire, the stifling stench of smoke, the cruel rock of the mountain, the raw pain of emotions under pressure of her hatred and greed, the overwhelming vastness of knowledge she gained from knowing everything Sauron knew. Then her golden shell cracked on one side and straightened out into a flat line. The gold appeared suddenly stretchy, filmy. It strained and spread across the anvil, almost molten, multiplying and flowing into the graceful shape of a beautiful woman draped over the stone. The gold stiffened there, then gained color and life. The Ring staggered for her first breath, and her fingers tightened into clenched fists. A dress of harsh black materialized with her flesh, and black armor adorned her ribcage and shoulders. She wore a tight band of gold around her neck as well as one on each wrist and ankle. She had bronze skin and raven hair, perfectly suited to what Sauron wanted. Her sharp eyebrows accented closed eyes, with the lids over them painted gold. She reached out blindly with slender fingers. Black fingernails sprouted like claws from her hands, searching for her lord Sauron.

Sauron obliged, slipping his fingers into her velvet grip. As he eased her up and off the anvil, her hold tightened until his hand turned slightly red from the pressure. Beautiful and dangerous, and exactly his own size. She stood perfectly level with him.

"Tomorrow, my Precious Ring," Sauron murmured, "we conquer Middle Earth."

She bowed her head. "Indeed, my lord. Do not fail us." When her eyes rose again, Sauron sucked in a breath: her irises were bright gold, and in them shone the dark language of Mordor, etched in blinding white. Her low, soft voice pierced the air and echoed around the cavern of Mount Doom.

"I will rule them all. I will find them. I will bring them all, and in the darkness bind them." She bowed to him fully, then reached up and kissed his hand. Her searing touch sent tingles of lightning and flame through Sauron's whole form. The Dark Lord and his Ring were tied permanently now; nothing could divide them. They were one soul.

But despite her beauty and strength, despite the tight bond between them, Sauron did not love her. They treated each other as though he did.

By dawn the next morning, the Ring awakened him with a hiss in his ear. She ordered him to get moving—her every command stung like a whip, but drove him like a mountain of tantalizing treasure. Her eyes were sleek and beautiful, but hideous with cruel, calculating rage. Her voice was soft, but burned the air like a simmering flame. He found she controlled him with the slightest movement of her fingertips when in human form. She never appeared as a woman to another; he wore her as a Ring when he went into battle, and she became his Precious when they returned to the shadow.

The Ring knew what love meant. Sauron had loved once, before he became the Dark Lord, but he no longer believed in it. She refused to admit to herself that love had felt rather pleasant. It betrayed her, and she had no one to love or care for. She never wanted to either, save for in that little piece of her that had come from Sauron once being able to feel more than anguish and hatred. She convinced them both that Sauron was the closest she could come to love, although it resembled a fiery pact of conquering strength.

Now, though, Sauron also felt controlled. He couldn't resist her commands; the curve of her Ring form and the shine of her eyes captivated him, and she accused him of being a coward if he did not fulfill his ambitions. He obeyed her with as little meekness as he could manage, although he never dared argue or fight. He had, he recalled, given her persuasive power. It would work on any, hundreds of times more potently than it had on Sauron.

She controlled his armies. Not only did she grant him the strength and will to govern all of Middle Earth, but she burned the hearts of the orcs hard and black. Although they did not know she existed save in the form of a Ring, she drove their very hatred. She had enough of her own to give to the forces of her lands, and more as they came.

She commanded the final battle, gathered close to the slopes of Mount Doom. There were more orcs than ever before, and only scraps of men and elves were allied against the forces of Mordor. Sauron stood, overlooking his armies with his Precious standing beside him.

"Go down to them," she purred in his ear. Sauron shuddered; the command in her voice frightened him. She slipped her fingers over his arm and tugged slightly, startling him. Her simple movement had the impact of an iron fist. "Go." Her tone grew dark and almost threatening. He nodded hastily, donning his armor. He grabbed his helmet, but before he could put it on she traced her finger along his forehead. "I shall come with you, love." She kissed his cheek sweetly and coldly. He shivered as she crunched down around his armored finger as a Ring, condensing from a woman into liquid into a band of gold. Her words shimmered along her curve, reminding him what she'd told him and everything they stood for together.

Sauron slipped his helmet over his head, determined not to let her down. He grabbed his sword and stepped down from the mountain, towards the armies. They clashed violently, and arrows flew over the mountains. He marched easily through his puny orcs to the even tinier men . . . and everything stilled when the front lines of Mordor's enemy laid eyes on the Dark Lord.

The Ring burned into their hearts with a chilling fear. No one could move as Sauron wrapped his metal fingers around his weapon and swung it into the men. A shout arose when dozens fell in one swoop, and Sauron swung again. The battle started up once more as orcs amassed around their Dark Lord to defend him, but he needed them not. The Ring drove him through the helpless, tragically brave men, right to the King of Gondor.

She squeezed her lord's finger mercilessly, driving him to get it over with. Sauron wanted to savor the moment, but she refused: they had to eliminate the enemy quickly. He swung hard, smashing the King's sword. The King fell back with a strangled cry and slammed against a cliff of stone some yards behind him.

Isildur, his son, watched helplessly as his father's eyelids slipped shut for the final time. He knelt down by his father's side, but it was indeed too late. The Ring recognized a new leader, and she squeezed Sauron harder.

 _Crush him! Break him!_

Sauron at last found the strength to at least bend her command, savor his victory. He stretched out his fingers, staring down at the powerless Isildur writhing on the ground. Isildur eyed the Ring fleetingly, then searched for a weapon. The Ring screeched at Sauron, demanding that he hurry. Sauron winced at the strain against his ears, and he snapped back at her in his mind—he could taste victory, so she need not rush him.

 _Do it now! Do it now; he is armed!_

Sauron swung down suddenly, but he saw no weapon, and so dramatized his movement. Satisfaction and sweet triumph flowed through him. Isildur raised the hilt and connected shard of sword; the Ring cried out again, afraid for her life. She strained on Sauron's finger, and he released his weapon with that hand in sudden pain. Isildur reached up, unable to do anything but swipe blindly. The blade hissed through Sauron's fingers, severing the Ring from his grasp. He roared in pain at the sudden snap between him and his life-force. The Ring cried out, agonized, as she and Sauron's fingers tumbled through the air, dropping suddenly to the ground.

The armies of Mordor, suddenly free of their malice and strength and lost without their leader, retreated. Men and elves exploded into cheers, grabbing each other and congratulating their fellow warriors: Middle Earth was finally free. The Dark Lord Sauron had fallen.

The Ring clenched close to Sauron's finger; it began to crumble and blow away in the wind. She should have felt sorrow, assuming she actually cared about him. Nothing entered her mind save bitter mourning. She felt so weak now, and she knew she was ended. She would be taken to the Fires of Doom and melted away, never to know the strength and power Sauron promised her. The cursed Dark Lord didn't have the capacity to understand the danger in Isildur—she angrily asserted to herself that she should have driven him harder.

Even as she sat in her state of despair, Isildur lay stunned. He might have celebrated with his people, but somehow he couldn't move. The golden circlet enchanted him in a dangerous sort of way. He scooped up the finger bearing the Ring in his hand and allowed it to crumble away while he studied the metal.

The Ring settled mournfully until Isildur's fingers flickered reverently about her. She paused, staring up at the prince. He looked ragged, tired, covered in dirt and blood. A plan of revenge built in her mind, a way to achieve power; she could see clearly, perhaps through thousands of years, a road of patience by which she could reunite with Sauron. She could feel him still out there: her existence preserved him, and she could allow energy and soul to trickle back to him in pieces.

Patience made the journey, but she had to start as soon as possible.


	3. Fool - Isildur of Gondor

The Ring's voice trickled out in a trembling murmur, attempting to sound convincing despite her sorrowful, vengeful turmoil. "Hail, Isildur of Gondor," she began. Isildur's eyes opened wide, and he searched for the source of the voice. "Slayer of the Dark Lord, Freer of the World." The Ring stretched, trickling into her human form. But as she grew she realized she would be much too big for him; she sank into a smaller form, condensing even herself as a Ring. As she shrank, she adapted to what would be most attractive to Isildur—slimmer than what Sauron would want, more warrior than Sauron's perspective of perfection. Her hair shortened and grew brown, her skin lightened just a tad, and her clothes became the graceful, blue dress of a queen. But her eyes and circlets did not change; they never would. She knelt before Isildur, taking his hand. She bowed, letting one of her hands flow out behind her. She pressed her lips to his knuckles. "Hail my rescuer, one who has brought me from the hand of Sauron."

Isildur sat flabbergasted. This beautiful woman had grown from the Ring, and seemed to worship him. Her kiss felt like fire, sparking tingles in his fingers. She bowed low, then stared up at him with wide, beautiful eyes. They were golden with writing etched into them; Elvish, the Elvish language of Mordor.

"I am yours," she whispered reverently. With persuasive power, she reached into his mind and felt around for what he wanted: prestige. Power. The very epitome of Sauron as a man—this worked to her advantage. She stroked the side of his cheek with her thumb, cupped the back of his head and ran her fingers through his hair. "I am your Precious, Isildur of Gondor. I will bring you great power and wealth, peace in all of Middle Earth, for I am great . . . and under your command."

Lord Elrond of Rivendell approached behind them. The Ring hissed to herself; she could designate who saw her as a woman and when—thankfully enough—but she still needed to hide. She crumpled back into a Ring, slipped into Isildur's grasp. He opened his mouth to call her back to life, but Elrond knelt down before him and stared at the Ring.

"It is the weapon of the Dark Lord," Elrond murmured gravely. "He lives in this Ring; we must destroy it. Come, Isildur." He extended a hand to the prince, but Isildur ignored him. They couldn't destroy the Ring. He wanted to know what that enchanting woman meant about power and wealth and peace. She could help him; Elrond obviously didn't know what asset he was giving up.

Elrond noted the argument in Isildur's eyes. "Isildur," he said sternly. The warrior's gaze turned up to him, and he stood slowly. Elrond stared down at the Ring.

"It has already begun to take you. Anything with such darkness embedded and melted inside cannot be trusted." The elf led him along the battlefield, but Isildur still hesitated in every step he took. He studied the Ring and the writing along the sides; it was so pristine and beautiful, helpful besides.

He attempted to convince Elrond on the way. He protested that it promised to help, but Elrond adamantly stood his ground. He continued up the mountain, even as Isildur vowed he would use the Ring only for good.

Elrond ushered him quickly to the end of a platform overlooking the roaring fires of Mount Doom. The Ring trembled; her day could not come, not yet. She'd survived Sauron's demise—she could get farther. She had to restore her master, find power and prestige as he had whispered to her while he stirred her life with his finger.

Isildur walked very hesitantly to the edge. _Power. Peace. Prestige. Riches._ The Ring whispered these words, desperate to live. She couldn't sound overly commanding, not yet. He stood to throw her in, but did not raise his hand.

"Isildur!" Elrond shouted.

The Ring numbed Isildur's ears. He stood with her flat in his palm, and she slowly melted over the sides of his hand into her human form. She cupped his jaw with her hands—they were calloused warrior's hands now, but softer than his were. He faltered to her touch; she smiled, then stared behind her shoulder into the lava. She gasped (a little dramatically for her taste) and embraced Isildur frantically. His heart thudded fast against her ear. Excellent: he feared losing her already—he would not be hard to harness for good.

"I beg of you, great master," she whispered fearfully although her every movement disgusted her, "let me live!" She turned her gaze to him and opened her eyes wide. He could not move, completely entranced. "I promise to serve you. I may have been dark once, but your power has overwhelmed me." _He's a dimwitted mortal if he's taking this ridiculous nonsense._ "Please, let me be yours." She leaned her face forward hesitantly, but she had to sell it.

Her lips had almost touched his, but Elrond snapped at Isildur again. For once she was glad that elves existed, but only for a fleeting moment.

"Throw it in the fire, Isildur! Do not let it tempt you!"

Isildur's eyes flickered open and closed, overpowered by this new phenomenon, this fiery beauty before him that promised him power and wanted him. He'd never felt so valued before, not by anything so amazing. And she could help.

It made no sense to throw her in the lava. And she had pleaded so helplessly, so delicately.

He turned to Elrond, and she relaxed. At least, she partially relaxed: Isildur's arm wrapped solidly around her waist, and she rolled her eyes just a little. She couldn't wait to get rid of this King of Gondor already, and she would make his death a sudden betrayal. She began plotting it in her mind, beginning to stretch her thoughts out to the orcs of Mordor. Leastwise the ones that could still hear her.

Where were those cursed men, those Nazgul? She couldn't hear them, and no doubt they wouldn't hear her either.

Isildur narrowed his eyes at the elf. He felt a little distrustful of Elrond now. "No. I can use it for good, Elrond. The Ring is now mine." He peered at her eyes longingly, and she forced a sweet smile back. When he turned his gaze from her again, however, she glared at him hard.

 _If only I could make your death slow and agonizing. It's a shame I have to kill you quickly._

The only thing keeping her from strangling him right then was how he'd kept her alive . . . but that meant he was greedily blind enough not to intrigue her.

But perhaps she would have more fun killing him if she built up his trust and agony beforehand.

He brought the Ring back to his palace in Gondor, proudly bearing her on his horse. She told him, simply so she could avoid his obviously growing affection, that she had to become a Ring periodically. Isildur never wanted to lose her (and she grudgingly gushed the same to him), and so slipped her around a chain on his neck whenever she got sick of him. If she ever became a woman on the chain, shackles formed on her wrist and neck bands, leaving her in the hands of Isildur. She avoided that greatly.

She tortured him to the best of her ability. She strung him along, made him believe he was a great king with all power that she "loved"; she asserted to call him "love" like she had Sauron, but never betrayed her master. Isildur was not bad as kings go, but she couldn't abide him.

The Ring spent years with him. She tucked herself back into a Ring less and less often, came to twirling her fingers through his hair and tantalizing him with visions of how she would reward him with flattering words and perhaps even a kiss when he came home from conquering Middle Earth. He would stare off into the distance, and his greed grew even as he watched the world outside . . . particularly the parts of that world he did not have.

One day he noticed a change in her. She'd been away from Sauron for so long, the etched words in her eyes and on the curve of her Ring form began to fade: he once dropped her Ring form into the fireplace by mistake and learned that the heat restored the writing for a short time. Her eyes settled into a deep gold, no longer glowing but very solid and stark. Her soul hardened, finally stone in hatred for all of Gondor, all of Minas Tirith, but mostly all of Isildur.

Finally she had amassed enough strength to summon a squadron of orcs from Mordor. She also finally convinced Isildur to ride out and conquer the neighboring kingdom of Rohan. His servants fought him from the sidelines, however subtly they could until he became abrasive about conquering Middle Earth. The Ring ensured he listened to no one but her.

"My Precious," he said—lovestruck, but he thought he truly loved her—"tonight we conquer Rohan. You will love me all the more." He slipped her onto his lap; she sat on the very edge of his knees, although he tried to pull her close. She angled herself away, but finally gave in and allowed her shoulder to touch his own.

The Ring sneered deep inside herself. He repeated what she said; he obviously believed and doted upon her every word. She externally stroked his cheek and leaned down close. Her voice came out a taunting, demanding whisper, but it tasted sweet to him—initially. Some bitterness warned him away, but he could no longer sense it.

"Every man you conquer brings me closer to your heart," she said softly. "Make me proud, Lord Isildur." Her voice lowered, cutting his ear. A chorus of whispers, power of the Dark Lord, joined her. "Keep me safe."

Isildur had intended to wait until the next morning to leave, but he was anxious enough—on account of his desire for the Ring and intuitive fear of the Dark Lord's greatest servant—to grab her and run out the door just then. When they approached his horse, he kissed her cheek long and deep. She trembled, angry and disgusted, but did her best not to make it obvious. She calmed herself, remembering this was the day Isildur would fall to her hands, the day she could destroy him for everything he'd done to her. Her fist clenched at her side . . . and her other hand rose, cupping and stroking his cheek tenderly. He smiled, uncertainty trying to creep in at her sudden excitement, and held out his chain. The Ring gripped it; ecstasy, the realization that she would never have to see his cursed face again, shivered through her arms and spine, then through her curve of metal as she collapsed into a Ring once more.

She drove him mercilessly. He leaped onto his horse; the beast grew agitated at her presence, and she forced it along, whispering threats.

 _You'll be stuck by an orc's arrow, you dirty creature,_ she sneered. _But your master will receive eight times the betrayal you will. Perhaps that comforts both you and I._

She turned her channel of thought to Isildur. He shivered, then set his expression in stone. _Conquer the men, love,_ she purred casually. _Make me proud, make me want you. Go—ride faster. Fight for me._ She tugged on his heart. She did not find it difficult to pull; she knew what he felt when she did. He felt like something honestly fingered the muscle at his core, dragging down on his center. He sat up higher, and his pulse thudded. He trusted his armor and his Precious to protect him from whatever pulls he felt, unable to trace them back to her. He gestured his men forward through the dark, cloudy evening.

They rode all night through the forest. The Ring beckoned the orcs, all the while coaxing Isildur into a numb conviction. His eyes glazed over, focusing on nothing but her chilling, soothing voice. Her presence itched like sandpaper and caressed like tender fingers, confusing him, lulling him into a false sense of affection.

Then, an hour or two after dawn, the Ring snapped down hard on his neck. Orcs sprang from the shadows, beckoned by her call. Arrows quickly sprang into view, causing many of the men and horses to collapse. Shouts and clangs of armor as well as weapons filled the air. Isildur's horse shrieked frantically, but was cut off when the Ring sharply commanded an orc to kill it. Isildur leaped from the horse and snapped the Ring from its chain in a fright. He slipped her over his finger; she abruptly turned him invisible.

"Come, Precious, lead me to Rohan," he hissed desperately, dodging the chaos. His men fell to the ground behind him, but he did not mind at all: he but had to save his Ring, his love.

He leaped into the river to swim away. The Ring began to cackle, and her laughter swelled, filling his mind. He clamped his hands over his ears, then stared down at her. She grew into a woman in the water, now demonically perfect as she had once been. He did not recognize her at first, not until he saw her solid, golden eyes. She held his hand in a vice grip and twisted back on it. He saw no love now, only horrifying hatred.

"Precious . . ." he managed. His eyes widened.

"Goodbye, love," the Ring sneered. She balled a fist, and satisfaction swelled like water behind a dam in her arm before she hit him square in the mouth. He fell backwards, but she still had a grip on his hand. She laughed again, the terrifying, chilling tones echoing through the water. She kissed his hand mockingly, then his cheek. He squirmed away from her before she could do more; her betrayal grew all too obvious. He tried to beg her to explain, but could not breathe. "Thank you for keeping me alive, twit." She bowed, releasing him, and he grew visible to all once more. "King of Gondor . . . conqueror of Rohan." But she could not stay human without a master, and she sank as a Ring.

She'd been expecting that, and so did not feel foiled even as she collapsed in the sandy floor of the river. _Archers! This way!_

Isildur heard her hateful scream . . . and nothing more.

She stared at him as he floated, lifeless, on the water's surface away from her. She nestled into the sand, unable to do more. She could wait. She allowed her energy to trickle back to her master.

"Did you think I would love you?" she spat after the corpse. It would have given her more fulfilling satisfaction to say it to his face, but she wasted no time in being rid of him. "A mere man, incapable of any power? I would have more than a king, more than a doddling buffoon.

"More than a fool that believes in love."


	4. Smitten - Smeagol

The Ring sank into a peaceful rest, biding her time. She could do nothing to make the world go faster. She allowed her power to trickle through the water, through the earth, rebuilding her master Sauron for hundreds, then thousands, of years. She assumed the world had forgotten about her, but she had to find some avenue back to Sauron. She reached out, although few came close enough to the river for her to sense, much less reach out to.

Sometime, though, someone would find her. And she anticipated that day.

The morning dawned clear and bright, and she loathed every second of it . . . but she could feel a stir in the water: a boat. She prowled with her mind, feeling the sensation as the ship rocked back and forth with the impact of a fish dragging on a man's pole. These were small men, no bigger than dwarves.

She reached out slowly, patiently, probing to find them. There were two; she had to have at least one for her own purposes.

Deagol started leaping excitedly in the small fishing boat when he felt a powerful tugging on the end of his pole. He turned frantically to his cousin Smeagol, then back to the water, exclaiming loudly. "I've got one, I've got one!"

Smeagol joined him, urging him to pull it in. He almost got the fish inside . . . but the Ring couldn't let him. She reached out for the fish and tugged hard, so much that the fish strained from the pressure. It died suddenly, and the Ring rolled her eyes. The fragile thing now floated in pieces through the river's current.

But then she heard a splash. Deagol fell through the water, and Smeagol laughed, surprised. He moved to follow his cousin, but the Ring pulled Deagol down to her. She yanked hard, her patience suddenly thinned; Deagol paused in the water, having been pursuing the fish, but the Ring knew he would never find it, not now.

 _Come to me,_ she insisted, resisting taunting him down to her. He cocked his head, instantly drawn to her hiding place covered in silt. She dragged against his hand—he didn't even know why he reached into the murky soil, but when his fingers closed around her she sent a satisfying thrill through his arm. He shivered in the water, then leaped up onto the shore.

 _Deagol._ She lulled over the name in her mind. While he scrambled up onto the bank, he eyed the golden trinket in his fingers, covered in dirt but still oddly attractive. It may have just been a silly piece of gold . . . but it entranced him. It was so beautiful, so perfect.

 _Sweet, sweet Deagol,_ the Ring purred. Deagol's eyes opened wide as she melted in his grasp. She frowned to herself when she shrank even more; why were men so small? She noted that she had gained a great deal of weight, not obese but not fine anymore. She liked herself better this way, substantial on her legs. Her feet grew a little, and her hair became tightly curled and golden. Her skin became slightly tanned, but not much. She bent over Deagol's dirty hand and kissed it slowly. The lad gawked at the sudden flutter of heat and lightning that filled him, a sensation that trapped him suddenly.

She probed his mind, and a wicked smile rose to her face, the latter of which now round with pinked cheeks—her eyes did not match her new body, and neither did the darkness of her cruel grin. He would be too easy; he wasn't a horrible creature, not yet, but very permeable under the impact of beauty and persuasion.

Smeagol crept up close to him, panting. He'd seen his cousin emerge from the river and called out to him, but Deagol didn't respond. He stood, frozen, on the grass. Smeagol peered over his shoulder . . . at the Ring. His eyes glazed over, for he had never seen anything so attractive in his life. The Ring shifted, allowing her woman form to be visible to Smeagol as well. Smeagol's eyes widened, and she grew slightly larger, ever so slightly. Apparently Smeagol and Deagol had similar preferences, but not identical.

"Smeagol," she whispered. Deagol did not move, for he could not hear her words to Smeagol. "Smeagol, love, I am your Precious."

He was permeable too . . . perhaps a better choice than Deagol, but she was not certain.

Smeagol's head lowered close to her. "Precious," he whispered. She hadn't even had to kiss his hand; he was already locked in her golden eyes, by the promises she could make and the influence she had over his mind. Either lad would take her right back to the mountain if she got him thinking long and hard enough, if he got easier to control like Isildur had.

"I must haves her," Smeagol hissed to Deagol.

Deagol stared back at him, shocked and defensive. The Ring felt a tingle rise up her spine as Deagol gripped her hand possessively; this would be an all-out fight. Deagol protested Smeagol's claim; Smeagol suggested that it "is my birthday, loves, and I wants her."

The Ring slipped away as the two grappled each other to the ground. She watched with wicked glee as Smeagol overpowered his cousin and took his life. She settled with a sigh; a powerful victor, even easier to grab ahold of. She could be back to Sauron in a few decades, perhaps.

Smeagol possessively cupped her face in his hands when he turned from his cousin. Never had he seen something so beautiful, so bright, so Precious. He pressed a clammy, anxious kiss to her forehead, and she conceded to allow it. She embraced him: chills of heat clambered through him, confusing but pleasurable. He felt so powerful, so needed, even if he didn't understand why.

"My Precious," he hissed; his smile grew sadistic, his eyes empty and greedy.

The Ring paused, realized she could tolerate him far better than Isildur. She settled her hand over his heart, felt its thuds . . . and began extending them.

Smeagol took her into the mountains. Her dark influence pressed on him very starkly, more starkly than it ever had on Isildur. She was surprised at how permeable he was under her hand, but he was obstinate about dealing with her in his own way. His own people exiled him over his obsession with her; she remained a Ring, gladdened by his foolish yet dark presence but a little sickened by how physically initiated he acted. She might not have minded the attention if she didn't have a master to get back to.

Eventually he became so dark that the light hurt, and he withdrew with his Precious into the mountains. His skin grew pale and taut over his bones, and his eyes wide, murky gray. He grew to be a loathsome creature . . . exactly what the Ring knew she was. She found somewhat of a kindred spirit in this Smeagol, or Gollum as they soon began to call him for the awful cough in his throat that sounded like the name.

In short, she possessed him. He would stroke the curve of her Ring for hours on end, just in the hollows of some dark cave in the Misty Mountains. Those days she cherished in some twisted way, in a way of feeling wanted by a creature she could control. Even in weakness Gollum was powerful, trapping fish, goblins, and orcs to eat rather easily. He made a mess of it, but she could tolerate that.

She prolonged his life. She could call no armies to her aid, and found she didn't entirely want to. With Gollum she felt wanted, and not by a creature haunted by her empty promises . . . but by her beauty and skill. Sometimes she would become a human, the only human he ever interacted with, and she would lay his head in her lap, stroke the top of his hairless scalp while his feet flapped excitedly. He doted on her, but for some strange reason she preferred Gollum's affections to Isildur's.

The Ring remembered that, perhaps, it was Gollum's darkness and power that attracted her.

But she could feel the call of her master after several hundred years in the caves with Gollum. Sauron begged her home, wished for her company and presence. The Ring waited, until she decided she was tired of Gollum. That postponed her an additional ten years, but the world would not fall into her hands unless she grabbed it. When Gollum found a goblin in his cave to eat, the Ring seized her chance and fell away from him, rolling down the stone. She would have said goodbye, but what did she care? Creatures only served to give her pleasure. She need do nothing for them that did not suit her purposes. And for now, Gollum was useless. She set that firm conviction in her mind: Gollum meant nothing to her.

As he wailed in the distance about her loss, the Ring actually felt a streak of excitement—pain. She had not heard such pain in so long, and she relished in the harm she had done. Sweet, sweet agony—for when one can feel nothing else, one longs to feel only what one can. It was a wistful sort of enjoyment, one that twisted the fibers of her being.

 **Many thanks to Aria Breuer for reviewing and following; also a huge thank you to Alibird1 for reviewing and rsteen for following! :) I love to hear from you guys!**


	5. Out of the Dark - Bilbo Baggins

The poor hobbit could see nothing in the pitch blackness of the Misty Mountains, as had been the case since he'd escaped the Goblin King. He grappled his way through the dust and stone; he resisted crying out for his dwarfish companions, for the goblins would find him. As his fingers shakily raked over the ground to give him his footing and his way, his fingers collided with something cold and hard that slipped into his grasp.

"What is this?" he muttered, picking it up. The Ring scrambled against his touch, frightened. She quickly searched him, probing his mind even as he felt her curve—a ring, he deduced. One Bilbo Baggins, she learned . . . a hobbit of the Shire. She could not search him now, for Gollum began wailing again. She listened intently for the hobbit's character as he communicated with Gollum. She caught that they played a game of riddles, but Bilbo stuffed her into his pocket, and she could hear very little after he really began communicating with Gollum.

Bilbo himself felt frozen with fear. Gollum threatened to eat him, but seemed entertained for a moment by the game of riddles they played. But soon Bilbo was backed into a corner, with no riddle to ask.

The Ring pulled at him; she was getting tired of waiting in this one spot. She could move now, and she didn't understand why he didn't get himself out. Perhaps he didn't know where to go. She tugged at his hand; she had to kiss it, had to seal herself to him in some way so he wouldn't let her go until she'd returned to Sauron.

Her day neared; she could sense it.

Bilbo paused, letting his fingers fall into his pocket around the mysterious trinket he'd found.

"What's in my pocket?" he asked.

That threw Gollum into a fit, but he showed Bilbo the way out as he'd promised to if he lost the riddle match. As Bilbo roamed the halls of the mountains searching for the door, the Ring grew excited: Bilbo would carry her to Sauron. She tried to transform, but suddenly she heard Gollum again.

He muttered about the pocketses . . . what could Bilbo have in his pocketses?

"The Precious," he asserted. The Ring hissed to herself, then yanked hard on Bilbo as she felt the hatred rising from Gollum. He was not far away. _Put me on, now!_

Bilbo startled, then slipped her out of his pocket. He felt some pull to slip the ring over his finger . . . and then the pull came again. He thought he heard a voice.

 _Put me—the Ring. Put the Ring on, Bilbo Baggins._

"Who are you?" he whispered.

 _Never mind that,_ she said quickly. _You have no time. Put the Ring on; just do it._

Bilbo shrugged, then slipped her over his finger. She snapped him into invisibility, but he couldn't have known; it was too dark for him to tell. He moved to ask why he had put the ring on, but then he heard Gollum hissing and wailing, screaming for his Precious as rage enveloped him. Bilbo at last scrambled for the exit, for which the Ring was glad.

It took the hobbit some time to discover that Gollum could not see him . . . and after he escaped, neither could the goblins. He stared down in wonder at the sweet little ring around his finger; it was such a pristine, beautiful thing, and helpful besides. He wondered how Gollum had gotten it—as a birthday present, the creature had said, but Bilbo wondered if that was really true.

The Ring probed his mind, learning that he was on a quest to slay a mighty dragon, Smaug or some such. He snuck up on some dwarves while he wore her, and when he took her off she realized he was traveling with them. She considered taking one of them, but then asserted that Bilbo would be all right for the present. She noted his crafty way of moving around, how he would sneak places. He was rather clever: he used her to bait spiders away from his friends once, and on other occasions to free the dwarves as well as himself.

He fascinated her. This was no greedy, powerful creature: he was, in fact, smaller than Smeagol had been so many years ago. She couldn't wait to see what she looked like when she kissed his hand; he would have an intriguing taste in a woman's perfection.

Bilbo's aura that she picked up from studying him seemed quaint, home-like . . . selfless, adventurous in a way she'd never understood. He was nothing like Sauron, or Isildur, or Gollum.

His conversation with Smaug the dragon interested her as well; he indeed knew more than she would have suspected from a humble little hobbit. He wasn't too unpleasant, she decided. But she did not appear to him, not yet.

The Ring paid no attention to the huge, uninteresting battles he fought. Leastwise, they were uninteresting from her place in his pocket. She was on his finger when he moved to deliver the Arkenstone—whatever significance that had, it was very beautiful—and when he escaped the horrors of war, but only by a smidge. She could have called the stones of the mountain and armies of goblins to him, could have abandoned him, but she didn't. It almost didn't even cross her mind. She wanted him to take her to Mordor; he cared enough about other people to do for her what neither Gollum nor Isildur could do.

As he lay, unconscious, on the mountain face where the war had chased him, the Ring pondered this Bilbo Baggins. He didn't feel as permeable as Smeagol, but he would not be difficult to overcome. She considered if any creature she ever came across would be hard to overcome. So far no one had resisted her very effectively, save Elrond, but she didn't even reach out to him.

She smirked to herself. She needed no challenge, and had none.

Bilbo removed her when he awakened, having forgotten he was invisible. She hesitantly reached out and called for a search party, yanking very lightly on them. She'd watched people searching for Bilbo as they passed by, but she wanted to wait for him to awaken. Now, though, he needed to be rescued.

And so he was. They sent him home with a pair of treasure chests filled with dragon's hoard, and she waited while he solved some issues at home. He kept her in his pocket constantly, and she heard—muffled—about everything in his life. She nestled inside and waited for him to pick her up so she could introduce herself.

It took him a few months, but for her that was not long to wait. She considered telling him to touch her, but after everything got sorted out—after all his possessions were back from the auction the Shire had started during his year-long absence—Bilbo found himself pondering his ring. He plucked it from his pocket, flipping it over in his fingers. Invisibility; a magic ring. It had saved his life so many times, and he wondered at it, how he had managed to stumble across it.

 _Bilbo,_ she whispered.

Bilbo startled. She almost addressed him as "love," but he was not like her last three acquaintances, which she began to refer to in her mind as slaves. No, that might not work for him.

His gaze left the Ring, and he searched the room. "Who's there?" He stood abruptly, the Ring still in his hand. He moved to bury her in his pocket, but she began the transformation hastily. Bilbo jolted, flattening his palm to look.

She melted over his hand, her fingers entwined with his. She suddenly grew a little thinner, her hair brown instead of blond, but still slightly curled. Her skin grew a little lighter, somehow still dark relative to a hobbit's. Bilbo gawked, taking her in. She stood an inch or two shorter than he, with a smooth jaw and a soft neck, a petite nose and full lips.

The Ring bowed carefully to him. "Greetings, Bilbo Baggins." She reached forward and kissed his hand; she let it stay for a moment, for she meant this one to some extent. He interested her, so she actually thought something more for him. She absorbed the rest of his character before she pulled away, taking in everything of him.

Perhaps he wouldn't take her to Sauron. The hobbit wasn't obstinate on purpose, but had little to move him in life.

This could take some time.

The Ring frowned thoughtfully, then smiled at Bilbo. He wordlessly surveyed her.

"Are you my ring?" he asked carefully, blinking at the certainty that this couldn't be real. But with all he'd seen over the past year and a half or so, it could be. Besides, this was no ordinary ring. He gasped when she nodded, then sputtered, unsure what to say.

The Ring laid her hand over his, stroking gently. Bilbo froze, staring down at their joined fingers.

"You need say no more," she said carefully. "I have preserved your life thus far; I know how you must feel. Come, sit down."

She kept her hand on Bilbo's arm as he directed her to a large chair by the fire. She skillfully maintained contact with him to channel affection, if not complete control. She realized she would have to order him about if she wanted to get back to Sauron; perhaps he wouldn't mind another adventure.

Bilbo studied her, taken aback by the very beauty of her. The cuffs on her wrists and neck looked like his ring, as did the lovely circles of her eyes. They spoke for some time while he made tea; she accepted some, but drank little—she needed naught but to feed on the soul of a living creature.

And as her life with Bilbo moved forward, she did just that, feeding on his essence and prolonging his life with her power. She gained very slow influence over him; she did not take it in an aggressive direction, for hobbits did not accept leadership that way. She learned that by trial and error once: she attempted to physically drag him out the door, and he scrambled into bed, refusing to take her to Mordor. Evidently he knew of Mordor, and he swore never to go.

The Ring fell into a kerfuffle as she slowly dragged him into her influence. But some twenty or thirty years after arriving in Hobbiton—in the Shire, at Bagshot Row in the burrow referred to as Bag End, or so Bilbo told her—her progress delayed with the arrival of a little hobbit in the house. She hissed at the first sight of him. This boy was ten years old, just a little, wiry thing. He was not unattractive; in fact, he looked quite like an adorable little elf. He had silky curls of black, a gentle face, soft hands, and strikingly blue eyes. He smiled almost constantly, and was a rather pleasant sort of fellow. He had a happy, sweet light about him; the lad was the exact foil of the Ring herself.

She loathed the sight of him.

She'd grown so attached to the concept of Bilbo taking her to Mordor that she wanted no intruders while she worked on his mind. When Bilbo showed her Ring form to the boy some days after he arrived, she refused to emerge from her shell. She was, however, forced to turn Bilbo invisible when he slipped her over his finger. The little hobbit before them grew excited, smiling broadly. He thought the ring an amazing thing, having heard all of his uncle's stories before. He had never seen something so in all his life, and for a moment it distracted him from the pain of losing his parents as he had only a week before.

"Could I try, Uncle Bilbo?" he asked.

The Ring scrambled in Bilbo's grip, so hard that she slipped from his fingers. That thing, that creature of light, could not touch her—she would not have it. Bilbo raced after her as she rolled along the floor, and he snatched her up. He admonished his nephew, Frodo, to remain where he was as he took the Ring into an adjacent room. Frodo waited patiently for only a moment before spotting a novel on the floor in front of him; he scooped it up and sat down hungrily to read.

Once Bilbo was alone with the Ring, she immediately transformed and stepped away from him, obstinately folding her arms.

"Come now," Bilbo hissed, "be reasonable. He is but my nephew, a Baggins as I am! And he is a rather careful young hobbit; he won't hurt you. You've seen for yourself how polite he is."

The Ring frowned, gripping her elbows. She didn't look at him.

Bilbo stepped towards her, wrapping her in his arms to try a different approach. He sighed at her maintained youth; he considered that perhaps she was more his daughter now than a lover as he had once thought. "You shall have to get along, the two of you. Frodo will look after you when I am gone."

"You have time," she grumbled. "Perhaps I shall be buried with you."

Bilbo shook his head. "No, Frodo shall have you." He lifted her chin, brought her gaze to meet his. "Please, do this for your Bilbo," he said gently. "He's adventurous enough; if you're kind to him like you have been to me, perhaps he shall take you to Mordor."

 _That boy wouldn't walk within a mile of Mordor,_ the Ring snapped to herself, thinking of the way Frodo's eyes seemed to illuminate everything around him like a bonfire. She shuddered; if she ever ended up in his hands he could be the end of her. She didn't know what about him made him that way, but some horrid combination of naivety, obstinacy, and courage had to be somewhere deep down: any of those two things alone would not be dangerous enough for her. She could sense something that matched her own will deep within him.

No. She refused to let anything challenge her.

"I will greet the boy when I am ready," she said, letting her eyes sink shut. She stared back up at Bilbo, her golden eyes glinting with a harsh light. "For now I only see him as a ring." Bilbo moved to thank her, but she held up a hand. "And you do not put me on his finger, or you never see him again."

 **Thanks for reading! I would love to hear feedback if you have any, via PM or reviews. If not, that's great; I just hope you enjoy. :)**


	6. Sevanaan Gamgee

**This chapter is a bit of an interruption in the Ring's story, partially to give a little emotional/character basis for Frodo (unfortunately rules of writing still apply to fanfiction XD). If you're waiting to hear about the Ring, she'll be in the next chapter again.**

As the time wore on, the Ring realized just how much she had adapted to life as a part of a weaker species. She missed Sauron's succulent thirst for power very much; she now fed on the essence of those with limited vision and no ambition. She despised herself for it, but could do nothing. Her ambition and will slipped away, little bits in every passing day.

For Frodo, he paid little attention to the Ring. Bilbo kept her in his pocket often while Frodo lived his life in the gentle Shire. He accumulated friends there, close to Bag End. One Samwise Gamgee, the son of Bilbo's gardener, was a sweet soul that Frodo took a liking to. The young Baggins also invited his cousins, Peregrine Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck, from his home on the other side of the Brandywine river.

One day, while out with his cousins, Frodo attempted to drag Sam out of his house. The poor lad had been struck with the flu for over a week, and Frodo was convinced his friend had to feel better now. He sprang in the door; Mr. Gamgee—who preferred that the boys called him Gaffer—was not home. It would be easy to convince Sam to come outside.

Frodo sprang through the door and down the long, broad hallway to Sam's bedroom. "Sam!" he called out. "Sam!"

"Mr. Frodo?"

Although they were not yet twenty, Sam had taken to his Gaffer's habit and called Frodo after a title. But following his statement, Sam slipped into a coughing fit. He sounded nasal in his speech, and Frodo tsked to himself; the boy just needed to get outside. But as Frodo's hand slipped around the knob of Sam's bedroom, a voice stopped him . . . a soft, low, girl's voice that he didn't recognize.

"Rest, Sam," she said quietly. "Gaffer said you must stay here."

"But Mr. Frodo's calling!" Sam protested.

Frodo knocked carefully, and the female voice responded.

"Come in, Mr. Baggins."

Frodo slipped inside and nearly doubled over. A young girl sat there in a chair by Sam's bed; she looked perhaps in her early thirties, but that took a little bit of internal digging for Frodo to figure out, as he was first taken aback by her appearance. She was not normal in any sense of the word—she had bushy, red hair that fell from her head to her thighs, long and thick. Her eyes were a murky blue and set in a deep stare, her lips slightly dark but full. She sat in a fairly normal looking dress, but nothing about the way she moved said anything about a typical hobbit; somehow he felt she was almost serpentine, for no evident reason. Frodo stood, a little dumbfounded, although he didn't entirely understand why. Something about her was completely off.

She extended a hand to him. "Well met, Mr. Baggins." He shook it distantly; something was wrong with her hand too. She cocked her head, studied him a little. A young thing, she knew, some years younger than herself.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam started, sitting up. He was pale, and he had dark circles around his hazel eyes. He coughed violently, and the girl spun to face him. She tore her hand from Frodo's, pressing Sam gently against the bed. The boy exhaled slowly, and when he calmed she lifted a bowl from a nearby table, spooning soup into Sam's mouth.

She turned and gave Frodo a fleeting glance. "My apologies, Mr. Baggins," she began. "Sam isn't feeling too well. You can come back in a few days."

Frodo stepped forward despite that, hoping she wouldn't mind that he at least wanted to talk to his friend. She frightened him a little bit. "How are you, Sam?" he asked gently. He laid his hand on the bed, near the girl. She lifted an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I'm alive, Mr. Frodo," Sam managed, patting Frodo's hand. Then he coughed again, and the girl laid her hands over his chest once more. He sighed, allowing the pressure of his lungs to dissipate to her touch. "Thank you, Sev," he muttered.

Frodo glanced up at Sev, and she nodded back to him.

"Oh!" Sam tried to sit up, but Sev kept him down, blushing slightly. She had intended to keep distanced from the hobbits of the Shire, but she admitted to herself that it was only a matter of time before Sam introduced her to someone. Especially someone admittedly attractive like this Frodo. "This is my sister, Sevanaan. Sev, this is Mr. Frodo."

Frodo cocked his head. "I didn't know you had a sister."

Sam shrugged. "She doesn't talk to people much. I'm surprised she didn't duck under the bed when you walked in."

Sev bit back a response and sat down. Admittedly she'd felt a little intruded on Sam's behalf, as Gaffer had strictly ordered her to keep an eye on her surrogate brother. She also felt a little intrigued by Frodo; Sam brought back stories of their adventures together, little things about reading and gardening, and Sev liked what she heard.

"I apologize again," Sev interjected, "that Sam is not able to come outside today, but if you want to run the risk of contracting his disease . . ." She sighed. "You may stay here and speak to him for a while. But soon he shall have to sleep." She stood and gathered his soup bowl in her hands, stepping out before Frodo could say anything more.

He turned to his friend, hesitantly taking Sev's chair by his side.

"She's not much older than you, Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "She won't be of age for some time yet."

Frodo paused. "I thought she was in her thirties." He glanced back into the hall, wondering if she would come back. Perhaps not.

Sam shook his head. "Mid-twenties, probably a couple of years older than you."

"Then she should be courting," Frodo mused. He furrowed his brow; if he had a sister he'd be worried about Pippin or Merry getting to her. Sev bit back a chuckle when she heard him; her, courting! As if she could or would. Hobbits terrified her too much, and she terrified them too much.

Sam shrugged. "She doesn't get out enough. She stays here, just in the house."

Frodo spoke with Sam a little while longer, until Sev slipped back inside with another steaming bowl of soup. She set it aside, intending to eat it, and laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder. Both of them stiffened; she hadn't entirely meant to do that, somehow in the mindset that she was touching Sam. She hurriedly pulled away.

"I'm very sorry," she admitted finally, "but Sam must sleep now. Gaffer will be home in twenty minutes or so."

"But I'm feeling fine, Sev!" Sam insisted.

Frodo turned to her, about to join Sam in his argument, but Sev adamantly shook her head. She allowed her eyes to sink closed; she didn't like disappointing people, but presently the two members of her home were pitted against each other, with Gaffer on the side of right. "I'm sorry. He may wait for you as long as he wishes out in the front room, but Gaffer would not be pleased to come home and find you two talking and spending your energy, Sam." She stood by the door. "You need to rest."

Sam sighed, then turned to Frodo, who also admonished him to rest. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Frodo." He sank back into his pillow, and Frodo waved to him.

"Get feeling better soon, Sam!" he called out behind him as Sev shut the door. She stepped with Frodo into the front room.

"Would you like something to eat, Mr. Baggins?" she asked.

He nodded emphatically, then paused. "You can call me Frodo," he said. "You are Sam's sister, after all."

Sev laughed slightly, surprised by his polite naivety. She slipped a few homemade biscuits from one cupboard, then an apple and a wedge of cheese from the pantry. "Thank you. You are a kind one," she admitted. Most male hobbits, according to Gaffer, were rather obnoxious at Frodo's age . . . at Sev's age. She'd been encouraged not to court, but she had no friends anyway, not outside of Sam's crush Rosie Cotton. She snickered to herself at the thought; she'd never told Rosie, but it was only a matter of time before Sam would need a little push.

Frodo stepped over to the counter as she set out the apple and grabbed a knife. He watched while she hacked the apple into pieces, sliding it almost instinctively to catch it with the blade. She threw the cores aside, then got caught in his eyes . . . and she halted, a little taken aback at the way his wide gaze took her in.

"Tell me, Frodo," she said, setting the apple slices aside, "how did you meet Sam?"

Frodo hesitantly stepped into telling how he met Sam, when the Gamgee was tending to Bilbo's garden with Gaffer. Sev interrupted him briefly to set before him a pile of apple slices . . . strangely paired with a smattering of cheese each. He eyed her, but she gestured to the fruit.

"It's good, I promise," she insisted before setting the biscuits in front of him.

Frodo picked up an apple slice, tempted to slip the cheese off, but he popped it in his mouth anyway. Sev watched expectantly while he sank his teeth into it; the cheese offered a salty gentleness, and when the juices trickled out of the succulent, crunchy apple, the salt melted into place, and the stark flavors combined in a balance. Frodo's eyes widened; he hadn't entirely been expecting that. He swallowed and sat back.

Sev leaned forward on the counter, folding her arms. "Well? What do you think?"

He shrugged slightly. "It's different," he admitted, but then ate the rest of the slice in his hand. He spoke around the last of it. "What do _you_ think?"

Sev chuckled. "It's my favorite food in the world. Apples and cheese . . ." She sank into a moan of ecstasy before righting in place.

Frodo lifted a piece. "Do you want one?"

She hesitated slightly before throwing it off. "No, it's yours. I'll cut one of my own." Then she gestured to the other slices with her knife. "Unless you don't want those, but I would be more than willing to eat them if you don't want them."

Frodo picked up another one, but divided it between the apple and cheese to eat it. "I'll eat these if you're going to cut another one anyway."

That satisfied her, and she proceeded to cut an apple for herself.

"How old are you?" Frodo asked after a while.

Sev shrugged. "Twenty-seven. And you?"

"I'll be twenty next month."

Sev glanced up at him fleetingly. "Same month as Master Bilbo."

"Same day," Frodo said, somewhat proud of himself.

She gawked at him. "No! Honest?" She shook her head, glancing back down at the apple. While she acted surprised, emotions didn't hit her as hard as it did most hobbits; she hardly felt anything. Subsequently she berated herself for reacting more than she felt, but she lived that way on a daily basis.

But Frodo couldn't have noticed her wince. He continued on about how he and Bilbo had gotten along for that, then began into the ring in Bilbo's pocket. That started a whole mess of conversation: they laughed and talked for over three hours before Gaffer stepped inside. He gawked, watching them snipping biscuits into little chunks. The moment Frodo showed Sev that he could catch food out of mid-air if she aimed right, she couldn't help but do it again and again. They laughed every time he missed, but now as Gaffer entered Sev scrambled to a halt; Frodo was a little slower descending from their plane of excitement. She stood upright, then nodded to her stepfather.

"My apologies, Gaffer," she chuckled, breathless. She patted Frodo's shoulder as he let out his last bits of laughter. "I thought you would be home a while ago."

Gaffer lifted an eyebrow when he saw them. He set his burden aside, a few bags of vegetables and fruit. Sev immediately dived to the bags, dragging them to the pantry. Frodo stood to help her . . . and her face abruptly turned pink. Only Sam ever helped her with that, but somehow she'd never considered that anyone else could do so.

When they finished, Gaffer nodded to Sam's bedroom. "How is he, Sevanaan?"

Sev winced at her full name; Gaffer never meant any harm, but he also didn't know what the name stood for. She stood upright and nodded to him. "He should be sleeping, Gaffer. Would you like me to check on him?"

Gaffer shook his head, hugging her just slightly. "Thank you, dear." He paused as he surveyed Frodo, who thumbed the crumbs from his mouth. "I assume Mr. Frodo has been helping you?"

Sev cut off a snicker. "To an extent, Gaffer. He's been keeping up my morale." She stepped aside and allowed Gaffer into Sam's room, then moved towards Frodo. She extended her hand. "I've had a wonderful time, Frodo. Thank you for visiting; you are welcome back whenever you wish to be here."

Frodo smiled at her, then shook her hand. He bent over it, but did not kiss it (for only hobbits of age did that, and he didn't want to anyway). "Thank you for letting me talk to Sam, Sev. I enjoyed today as well. Keep making the biscuits; I need to work on my catching skills."

She outright laughed this time, and Frodo joined her, not releasing her hand. "I will work on my aim, I promise," she said, breathing it in a sigh. She tugged for her hand back, and Frodo released it abruptly. She walked him to the door . . . and as he waved to her, walking again home, she wistfully wondered if anyone in the world like that would ever appreciate her.


	7. Defenses - Frodo Baggins

The Ring asserted that someday Frodo would have to become dark enough for her to handle, but the more time he spent around Sev the brighter he became. The Ring didn't understand what made him sparkle like that, but some days when he came home he looked about ready to pop with all the light inside. She'd cower a little bit.

Finally, one day during Frodo's 30th year, she realized she could wait no longer. She appeared to him as a woman, but somehow did not alter her features. She conceded that was a result of still being under Bilbo's jurisdiction . . . but something still felt off. Somehow she did not become what Frodo was attracted to. She waited behind Frodo's bedroom door; Bilbo was out for only a moment, for the Ring wanted to speak to Frodo alone, and she'd sent him outside on a vain pursuit of Gaffer. Something about the flowers wilting in the front garden: the Ring didn't entirely care what she'd told him, and didn't quite remember.

The Ring sucked in a breath and released it. "Frodo," she started, stepping out from behind the door. Frodo lay on his bed, a book in hand with the pillows stacked behind him to keep him sitting up. His gaze left the page when she stepped in, and she halted. He was no longer a boy so much as almost grown. She searched him, wondering why he interested her so. It was like Bilbo . . . but more. Far more.

Frodo startled, and his book fell aside as he scrambled to his feet. "Who are you?" he asked suddenly. The Ring paused at his sudden aggressive fear; she'd never heard anything of the like in him. His eyes grew apprehensive.

She shook off her surprise and held up a hand. "Calm yourself, Frodo Baggins," she said, a little exasperated. "I am the Ring."

Frodo relaxed. "Bilbo's ring?"

She nodded. "Now sit down, lad, I only wish to speak to you."

Frodo sank onto the bed, still unsure how to take her presence. She abruptly sat down beside him, or almost on top of him. He slid over to give her room, but she backed him into the very corner of the bed, squeezing up by his side. She didn't know what brought her that way, but something drove her to be as close to him as possible. She asserted it had something to do with how he would be her master in only a handful of years . . . but she didn't look beyond that bare thought for fear another answer would arise. It did anyway; perhaps she hadn't always thought him this attractive.

Frodo folded his legs, uncomfortable with her nearness. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but she spoke first.

"Tell me, lad," she said, then hesitated. She grabbed his ankle and dragged his leg off of his other. He jolted with the sudden contact. "Relax, boy, I'm not going to hurt you," she muttered. Frodo did his best, but it was impossible with her so close. His heart thudded at the way her shoulder blade buried itself in his side. "Tell me," she continued, "what has your uncle told you of me?"

Frodo began to respond, but she suddenly picked up his hand, rolling it over in her fingers, studying it. Frodo's eyes widened, and his words collapsed into an "uh . . ." She gazed up at him expectantly, laying his hand in her lap. He moved to pull it back, but she pretended not to notice.

"Go on," she persisted.

She stared relentlessly into his eyes until he bashfully continued. He told her all the stories Bilbo had, nothing of Sauron and nothing of Mordor, nothing of her history. Then, she realized, she'd never told Bilbo those things, save that she needed to get back to Mordor. He'd never asked for the reason, and she didn't give it to him.

The Ring nodded. "Interesting." While he spoke, she continued to study him, all the way from head to feet. She tried to pick him apart, learn what irked and attracted her so about him. He was distracted enough with his telling that he didn't notice her turn over his arms, peer down at his feet, glance into his face and all over the features of it. He reacted to nothing until she laid her hand over his heart, feeling for the thuds there. He stiffened and scrambled back suddenly, and she subsequently stared up at him, confused.

"What is it?"

Frodo blinked. "I hope you will pardon me, my lady, but pray, what do you want?"

The Ring hesitated. "Simply to understand what my master will be like." Probing him had helped her understand his mind: relative to all she had thus encountered, it was structurally very stable, very bright, very blinding. His lack of power or the desire thereof helped a great deal . . . but so did his innate intelligence, and courage to do anything he must. If she could get him on her side, he would be a powerful asset. She studied him one last time and backed away. "Until later, Frodo Baggins," she said dismissively. She walked into the other room to ponder what she'd seen and felt. A defensiveness built up in her mind when she wondered if she truly thought him handsome; of course she didn't. He terrified her. She blushed madly when she thought of touching him, and convinced herself it meant nothing.

Frodo stared after the Ring, completely taken aback. He shivered, remembering how her fingers traced across his chest as though poising to strike his heart. He drew his body together—he couldn't bring himself to finish his book now. He stood to go find Sev, for at this point he told her everything. Talking to her was cathartic to an extent, or so he'd learned: while he spent most of his time with Merry and Pippin (and Sam when he wasn't busy), they weren't much for conversation. Sev was the complete and utter opposite—she analyzed every bit of the world, and was willing to discuss it at any length. At times she would open up and do something fun, but most of the time she simply readied herself to listen to anything he had to say and speak right back. Often he was not in the mood to be so deep about life, but the more time he spent with her the more he began to think about the world in the way she spoke.

He left right away to get to the Gamgees' . . . and shivered when he saw the Ring on the table on his way out. He might not have believed that she was anything but a horrifying stranger if Bilbo hadn't told him years before that she could become a woman, as well as what she looked like. He raced out the front door, passing Bilbo on the way. Bilbo did not mind where his nephew wandered to, although periodically he would come home dirty or in trouble, usually courtesy of Merry and Pippin. They often pilfered mushrooms together when they were younger, but Sev managed to still that behavior just slightly in Frodo, if only by distracting him.

Frodo leaped up to the Gamgees' front door and knocked rapidly. The door slipped open.

"Gaffer and Samwise are at the Bagginses'," she said timidly, not even poking her head around.

Frodo chuckled. "I happen to have just come from there, and they're not who I'm looking for."

Sev finally turned from the door, ecstatically grinning. He nodded to her, and she gestured him inside.

"What can I do for you?" she asked carefully, shutting the door behind him. "Usually you see me only when you have something deep to think about."

He sighed, not sure entirely how to explain it. "This is a rather unusual problem," he said slowly. "I guess I'm just a little confused."

Sev lifted an eyebrow, trying to be excited for him at her assumption of his issue. "Sounds like trouble with a girl." She waited for him to confirm or deny, but he just stared up at her hopefully; that seemed the closest assumption to his problem. She sighed, defeated, and gestured to the kitchen. "Come; I have biscuits. But you have peaches instead of apples this time . . . assuming you like them."

Frodo nodded slowly, and she brought him inside. It kind of stung for her to realize he liked another, but Sev knew it would happen eventually, even if she never wanted to admit it to herself. Frodo sat down, although he did not eat.

"Frodo?" She sat down beside him.

Frodo sighed. "Bilbo's ring," he muttered.

Her eyes opened wide. "Ring?" For all her thought train could consider, he already meant to propose to this unknown lass that she'd conceived in her mind . . . using Bilbo's ring. Her heart thudded, but she shoved the notion down.

He nodded, glancing up at her. He grew confused at her terrified expression. "Are you familiar with it?"

Sev shrugged. "Not entirely, only that Bilbo brought it back from his adventure from the dragon." She paused. "Why? Is it special for any other reason?"

Frodo glanced around, then nodded. He launched into explanation about how it could turn one invisible, and how it could become a woman. Sev lurched in place, then held up a hand to ask him a sudden question that worried her.

"And you've fallen in love with this Ring?"

He blushed. "No, not really."

Sev cocked her head, suddenly shaky with relief. "Then what is it?"

Frodo leaned forward, shifting in place. "She never came to me as a woman, not until today." He ran his fingers up and down his arm, trying to keep the memory of her touch at bay. But it was impossible, talking about it. "She asked if she could talk to me . . . but I don't think she even heard a word I said. She just started touching me, like she was going to eat me." He squirmed in place, then glanced up at Sev apologetically. "I suppose she just terrified and confused me; I don't have much to say for it."

Sev nodded slowly, assessing the issue in her mind. She had little to say as well—save that she was relieved Frodo hadn't started courting yet, from what she understood. She reached forward and grabbed his hand with both of hers. He startled until he realized it was meant only as a friendly gesture, or so he thought. In truth she meant more, but resisted acting on that.

"I'm afraid I don't either," she confessed, "save that she seems unusually abrasive. I would not trouble yourself with her for now." Then she glanced up at him. "You are, however, strangely polite, and I think you ought to be more vocal if she truly upsets you that way. Being that insensitive to you she might not be sensitive to herself. Besides that, she is not a hobbit, and perhaps functions differently. Just make your feelings clear."

Frodo settled, not entirely internalizing what she said, but accepting that the Ring was no longer here, that familiarity kept him safe. Sev squeezed his hand, and he sensed jocose solemnity entered her grip.

"I wish you luck," she said, mockingly mournful. Frodo raised an eyebrow, then stared down at the peach she left in his hand. He chuckled at the sight, shaking his head.

"Thank you, Sev," he said quietly, patting her hand. Then he glanced up. "On that note, any young men that Sam isn't aware of that are eyeing you? I could use good practice."

Sev laughed, a little bitterly. "You'll never have to worry about that." She glanced outside. "I told you, I'm leaving the Shire the moment I get the chance. Gaffer wants me to stay here until Sam is of age, and then I'm off to see the world."

Frodo blinked. She'd said that? "Why?"

"I don't belong here, Frodo," she said numbly, not looking at him. "It's torture to be here, to live." Her tone grew dark like it did occasionally, but Frodo had never heard her speak words such as these. "Gaffer tried to tell me that things would be all right, but somehow I don't entirely believe him. My blood still burns and cuts me, and my mind is still constantly in a drunk headache." She stared down at the ground, then sighed. "I'm sorry, Frodo, we're here to discuss your troubles."

Frodo reached forward, grabbing her shoulder. "What are you talking about? Blood that burns? You've never mentioned this."

Sev nearly tore herself from his grasp in an internal frenzy, but managed to calm herself. "I don't belong here," she said cryptically. She glanced up at him, settling. "Just because I will never court doesn't mean I won't try to help you."

"I'm not entirely interested in courting," he admitted. Sev relaxed suddenly, nearly sinking to the floor: if he did end up courting a girl, it was for love and not for simple attraction. Of course, she couldn't count on that, but she could at least know for a while that perhaps Frodo would be safe.

"Not a problem," she said slowly, marking her words. "I probably wouldn't be much help anyway."

Frodo lifted an eyebrow. "If you're so disappointed," he said, mildly sarcastic, "perhaps I could court as it is." He paused, surveying her. His stomach lurched at the thought of courting someone when he realized he would court her of anyone: she was older than him, but they were good friends. Surely it couldn't hurt.

Sev lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "Go for it. That decision is yours to make."

Frodo scooted close to her. "Actually, I'm feeling suddenly protective." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and she grew slightly rigid. "And, seeing as I don't wish to court at present, perhaps we could help each other be protected from the wiles of society."

Sev's eyes bulged, and she turned slightly towards him, but didn't meet his gaze. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Frodo said, lowering his voice, "what if we were to feign a courtship?" He almost didn't believe she would accept his offer if he asked her to actually court him; the idea seemed strange even to him, considering that they were only friends.

She startled, but he held her in place.

"Just hear me out," he whispered. His mind fizzled at the thought of truly courting her through this outlet, but he considered the falsehood a decent idea. "We're good enough friends, it should not matter to us, but it would keep me from being expected to court anyone else, and perhaps you wouldn't feel pressure to go to such great lengths in finding a companion."

She lifted an eyebrow. "If we were to feign it that may or may not push me to find someone who actually courted me of the desire to do so."

Frodo groaned to himself. "Sev, that's not what I meant." He squeezed her closer, and she nigh wrenched away from him—the concept he suggested terrified her. "Of course I truly care about you, but in this case we wouldn't expect it to go anywhere, seeing as you plan to leave someday." He paused at his realization.

Sev's eyes sank closed, and she swallowed. That sounded horribly painful, when she conceded to herself that perhaps she was in love with Frodo. She shook it away; he was too young. Feigning to court could turn into something literal in the future, however. It might even convince her to remain in the Shire.

She nodded slowly. "I like it," she managed. "A pact, then. But if you start courting another girl, or one catches your eye, you must let me help you."

Frodo grinned and extended his hand for her to shake. She accepted, then shook his hand slowly. But he lifted it close to his mouth before she could take it back. She froze, eyeing him with dark suspicion.

"You've got to act like it to make it work," he said, lightly kissing the back of her hand.

Sev's pulse fluttered, but she shook it off. "Indeed," she said, trying her best to sound devious, but that stood ready to cave in to actual hope. "How much, exactly, do we make it look like an actual courtship?"

Frodo paused, then considered. He couldn't think of a drawn line through an actual courtship and a false one when he thought about it behavior-wise. Then an excuse hit him: "It's just between us. I think the interactions are the same."

"Except for when we're alone," she pointed out.

Frodo cocked his head.

"That we know, between the two of us, that this is nothing more than a wicked plot," she said, containing her wistfulness. Nothing more than a wicked plot. There was no light of desire in his eyes, no trick to all of this save to keep himself from courting . . . and to keep a gauche friend, an exile from society, from feeling horrible about herself. She did not mind that he pitied her; in fact, she thought him the kinder for it. She lurched when she wondered if he would be the only person that ever accepted her as more than a surrogate family member.

He nodded, although slightly hesitant.

Sev bit her lip, about to tell him (although it might have come out with a bitter sting) that she would not kiss him, for she was saving that for someone special. Then she realized that he was someone special. But she still felt it a lost cause to kiss him; likely he did not view a kiss with the same intensity that she did, and she shuddered at the thought that someone would take it from her for less than it was worth.

"Then we are both safe." Frodo broke the silence, squeezing her close and laying his hand over her own. She swallowed and sidled up to him ever so carefully. "We are officially faking a courtship now; we ought to make an appearance."

Sev stiffened and almost launched out of his grasp. "A what?!"

Frodo dragged her away from a standing position. "An appearance. Sev, society must know if either of us are to be safe. You must come with me everywhere."

"But your friends—,"

"Will have to deal with it. They know how to handle each other when lovesick." Frodo stood abruptly, not releasing her hand. She inwardly groaned; she felt like she was on a chain, but she took it anyway. She'd rather be hooked to Frodo than anyone else, even if she felt like her independence had suddenly been ripped from her fingers.

 **This isn't the best chapter, but then what exposition is? Don't worry, we get deeper into the Ring in a couple of chapters. :) Thanks for reading!**


	8. New Slave - Frodo

The Fellowship of the Ring

OR

Delamarth: The Shadow of Mordor

Thus progressed the next couple of years. The Ring remained silent, and Frodo courted Sev with originally only intentions of pitying her and perhaps protecting himself from the watchful gossips and matchmakers amongst his peers and elders . . . but even as holding her hand grew more and more sentimental for him (although he saw her little outside of their typical daily conversation), he found himself slowly feeling more and more intently that he wanted something deeper, a true courtship.

The night of his 33rd birthday he wished to ask her. But she turned up for little of the party; Sam said she didn't feel healthy. Truthfully Sev wanted to leave Middle Earth as soon as possible, not only the Shire. It quickly became apparent to her that Frodo never wanted to take their relationship beyond a friendship/fake courtship. She couldn't abide it however much it protected him: it stung like a swarm of hot knives every time his fingers entwined with hers, snapped like the jaws of a pack of wolves every time his lips touched her cheek in sweet (but obviously public) greeting or farewell. She wanted his affection to be real, and while his gestures softened over the years she crushed her hopes into a paper ball and threw them in a despairing fire, watched them crackle mercilessly into ashes and blow away in her ever darker imagination.

Gaffer sent her, the night Frodo came of age, to go to Rivendell for healing. He didn't know what was wrong with her; he only knew she'd always had pain, ever-present agony that had nothing to do with her life in the Shire, or so he asserted. She wished Frodo a happy birthday and left the party, not telling him that she was going to the Elves. She couldn't bear the sight of him, old enough to marry with no desire to have her for his own.

Not that he could have cared. Bilbo stood up right after she left to give his speech, fingering the Ring at his side. He'd told her he planned to go with the Elves, and somehow she found herself agreeing. She almost anticipated the day Frodo Baggins would become her master, as though she wanted a challenge.

As though she wanted _him_.

The Ring waited patiently, but as Bilbo's speech carried on his movements grew frantic and frightened. She rolled her eyes inside; _It's all right, Bilbo. I've got this all covered. Just put me on your finger when the time is right; I can handle the rest._

Bilbo stiffened confidently. "I regret to announce," he said, anticipation building up within him, "that this is the end. I am going now." He looked deliberately at Frodo, whose expression grew quickly epiphanic. Bilbo hesitated, remembering that Gandalf had reminded him earlier that Frodo was very fond of him. Bilbo shook it away; Frodo would be fine.

"Goodbye," he whispered to his nephew, although the boy sat some few hundred yards ahead of him. The Ring slipped over his finger, and he vanished.

Frodo's eyes shot open wide: Bilbo's ring. He stared after where Bilbo had disappeared, but couldn't follow him for the crowd of party guests that suddenly attacked him, demanding to know what had happened.

Bilbo cackled his way back to Bag End before slipping the Ring off of his finger. She laughed when she turned back into a woman, and they danced around for a moment before he lifted her by the waist into the air. Then he sucked in a breath.

"I suppose I'm not as young as I used to be," he managed, rubbing his spine.

The Ring clapped his shoulder. "No, sir. Come, let me help you pack."

Truth be known, she just wanted him gone. She couldn't wait to see him off, to begin again with a younger target. She might have convinced Bilbo to take her to Mordor, but she focused too much of her recent attentions on getting through to Frodo. She'd only broken into Bilbo, not possessed him completely. The kiss on the hand really helped, but he didn't seem as attracted to her—age had assisted with that, she conceded. She realized those first thirty years without Frodo would have been a prime time to catch Bilbo . . . save that Sauron was not strong enough then.

She exhaled slowly as she realized she'd offered enough of her soul to Sauron. He had life.

He spoke to her that night while Bilbo packed.

 _My Precious,_ he whispered. _Oh, Precious . . . I have sent my Nine for you. Barad-dur is rebuilt, and Saruman the White is now with us. He breeds new warriors in his palace at Isengard. You would be proud of all I have done._

Chills ran down her spine as she realized just how much Sauron worshipped her. She whispered back tauntingly. _Wonderful, love. You make great progress; I will be back as I see fit. Do not worry, my lord, it will not take me long. I see our forces will be great enough to take Middle Earth soon._ Old dreams trickled into her mind, sadistic desires she had not felt for ages. Thirsts built up within her throat and heart. She stared around Bilbo's hole; such a short span of possession for all the world held. If only she could have convinced this hobbit that there was more to life than a simple hole and some antique treasures, then perhaps he could have been the Dark Lord by her side.

But only Sauron had the grand vision of conquering Middle Earth.

The Ring closed her eyes, envisioned Barad-dur in her mind. Sauron's eye, burning lidless and furious, remained trapped between two spires at the top of the sleek, spiked tower. He watched her greedily.

 _Hurry, Precious._

She cut him off, not ready to speak with him yet. Sauron was dark to the core, but for the present she felt like darkening her master. She could only darken the pitch-black by taunting them, by making them feel worse than they did. She would play around with Frodo as she drew him on towards Mordor . . . unless the Nazgul arrived first. Then she would travel back with them, leave Frodo betrayed and dead in his home.

She called to them. But they knew: they knew to come to the Shire, to the house of Baggins.

Bilbo struggled in letting her go. She gloried in that, and internally growled at Gandalf for impeding on her tugging of Bilbo's mind and emotions. The hobbit called her his Precious. She shivered: how far Sauron's endearment of her had gone. It amazed her. She was precious to all—and therefore to none.

She threw off the last sentiment. Sauron truly believed her to be Precious, but she had to repeat that to herself at her sudden shudder.

Bilbo walked out the door without much ceremony. She waited on the floor for Frodo to arrive; he would be her last slave before going back to Sauron, and while she had done little with Bilbo she planned to enjoy this little excursion. She craved watching this creature of light burdened with her presence; most hardly noticed or didn't mind the change of being hers, but oh, he would notice and he would care.

Gandalf tried to pick her up that night. He knew something was wrong with her, and she didn't want that. So when he reached down and his finger shakily brushed her curve, she bit back, flashing Sauron's eye into his mind. He snapped back, and she cackled at him. He frowned before he turned away.

The Ring settled again until she heard Frodo's voice behind the closed door of Bag End, and she tingled with anticipation. Part of her sadistic desire, she realized, lay in the fact that he scared her so; she didn't like how he intimidated her, and she had to put it all to a halt. Oh, how she longed to see that shadow in his eyes, know that nothing stood in her way when she had a will.

Frodo broke through the front door calling out for Bilbo, but when he saw his uncle's ring on the floor at his feet he knew what had happened. He carefully picked her up, and she stiffened at his gentle touch. His skin was far softer than any of her slaves before, and he had a younger, finer way of moving around. Elf-like, but not entirely painful for her as elves were. She intended to savor this one.

"He's gone, isn't he?" Frodo stepped numbly towards Gandalf. The wizard sat before the fire, smoking his long pipe in a bit of a stir. The Ring tingled, waiting for Gandalf to leave. She would appear to Frodo the instant she could.

Gandalf and Frodo spoke for a small moment, and the Ring patiently waited for Gandalf to leave. But then Frodo slipped her into an envelope. She nearly began to transform to get out, and might have made it if Gandalf didn't abruptly seal the Ring inside by stamping a wax blob on the back. She distinctly felt Gandalf hand the envelope back to Frodo, who accepted it somewhat uncertainly.

Frodo wanted to ask the wizard to help him set up his stewardship over Bag End, but Gandalf stood suddenly and said, "I must go."

The hobbit followed him around the small burrow, insisting that he stay, asking him why he had to leave.

"There are questions . . . questions that need answering," the wizard responded cryptically.

Frodo followed him right to the door, not dropping the envelope with the Ring inside. "But you've only just arrived! I don't understand."

Gandalf halted, then turned to face the hobbit. "Neither do I." He knelt down, placing a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "Keep it secret," he whispered. "Keep it safe." Then he whirled around and vanished into the night.

Frodo stared down at the envelope in his hand, wondering what this ring meant . . . if it had anything to do with Gandalf's departure.

The Ring stared back up at its new master (or slave, depending on how much one knew of the situation). Gandalf obviously suspected her, and would likely find out. She sizzled with anticipation: no doubt she would be on her way to Mordor any day.

Frodo buried the Ring in a chest and soon forgot all about her. Sev arrived back in the Shire some time after Gandalf left, looking rather numb. Frodo happened to be walking back from the market then, and he saw her shambling from her horse in the front of the Gamgee home down to its front door. He raced up to her, trying to be as quiet as possible until he got close.

"Sev!" he cried.

She spun around and brightened a little. Frodo slowed when he realized her eyes were dry and red. She smiled weakly; her hair looked awfully messy, and she felt sick. She stretched out a hand to greet him, and he abruptly dropped his load. She smiled more sincerely, and he dragged her into his arms, embracing her gently. She felt so soft and fragile in his grasp—when she hugged him back he realized just how much he'd missed her.

He squeezed her close, hoping she knew that he meant it. She knew no such thing, rather felt a stab of longing. She could imagine coming home to him at Bag End, being the mistress of the home. She could envision him sweeping her off her feet and kissing her . . . but she cut the thought off.

"Sev, it's good to see you," he said, pulling away. Her hands remained limply locked around his neck, a force of habit. He deeply kissed her cheek, nearly adjusting his initial reach by a matter of inches to really kiss her. Sev stiffened at the tender touch, waited for him to break away so she didn't feel those pleasurable tingles over her skin anymore. He slowly pulled back to survey her. "Where did you go?"

Sev shrugged. "Sam is almost of age. I went to find out where I would travel to." She glanced behind him at his abandoned sacks on the road. "Do you need help?"

Frodo shook his head. "No, I'm just taking these up to Bag End." He moved to scoop them up, but he hung them all on one arm so he could hold out the other for her to take. She obliged, sliding her fingers into place along his elbow. The movement was so familiar, but she wanted it to change, wanted it to come across to him as truthful, deeply felt affection. She bit her lip, wondering how she would live without him when she left.

She bitterly asserted to herself that it might actually be easier to handle life without him than with him and without love from him.

He led her on to Bag End. "I suppose you haven't been around for a little while; Bilbo and Gandalf are gone."

She nodded, staring at the ground as he led her up the steps into his home. "Gandalf spoke with me the night of your birthday. I knew of both departures."

Suddenly Frodo remembered: he was going to ask her if she would truly court him. He moved to bring her into the house, but she shied away.

"What's wrong?" he asked, still on the threshold. He didn't step inside, simply set his food down on the walk. "Sev?"

She shook her head. "Gaffer and Sam don't know I'm home. I must go see them before I talk to you."

Frodo almost told her that what he intended to do now would mean more than simply greeting Gaffer and Sam, but then he realized she might not take his offer. After all the time they'd spent together, she still wanted to leave the Shire. He swallowed; even now she looked obstinate. She wouldn't be remotely permeable until she talked to her family.

He nodded. "Go on. I will join you soon."

Sev turned away, then paused and ascended the step. Frodo startled when he heard her approach; she glanced over him, then reached up and kissed his cheek.

"It's good to see you too." She turned slightly pink. "I missed you . . . a lot." Then she spun abruptly and raced down the step, back to the Gamgee house.

Frodo reached up and fingered his cheek disbelievingly. He realized after a moment that, even after these few years of a feigned courtship (not to mention real friendship), she had never kissed him before; he took care of all of that. Her lips were gentle, soft, light, far more pleasant and tender than her cheek. He stared at her as she entered her home—he had a sudden feeling that things were not what he'd imagined before. He leaned his head against the doorway behind him. He suddenly felt twisted, confused, but he had no one to turn to: he always went to Sev or Bilbo with his troubles, and now one was gone and the other was the source of his problem. He pinched the ridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, rubbed for a minute before stepping inside.

The Ring stayed hidden in her envelope. She couldn't transform, for ripping the paper would not grant her the room to spread. Her gold would melt between the objects in the box and create quite a mess. She could wait.

She felt the Nazgul reaching out for her, and she pulled hard. They were still so far away. _Incompetent men; they don't even know where the Shire is. They may be reckless and brave, greedy and black, but they can't find their way from a tree to a river in broad daylight . . ._ or so she sarcastically told herself. They would find her. Truth be known, they didn't receive the information they needed until recently, and were tearing as quickly as they could across Middle Earth to find the Shire, almost on the opposite side of the Arda continent from Mordor.

A miraculous moment arrived when she could feel objects shifting in the chest above her. Frodo frantically scrambled through the box, searching for her. Gandalf had somehow turned up at his home and demanded to see the Ring. Frodo quickly yanked out the envelope the moment he spotted it; Gandalf looked worried, and Frodo didn't like it when the wise were concerned so deeply about something.

Gandalf threw the envelope in the fire, and the Ring nearly gasped with delight as the flames tickled her curve. The paper peeled back and allowed her to sink into the logs. She lost her concentration, remembering how her soul would dance with the light of fire when she stood near her lord Sauron, draining his essence for her own growth.

"What are you doing?!" Frodo stared down into the fire as the envelope popped and peeled back to reveal the Ring. Frodo nearly exclaimed that she was human, that she wouldn't survive through fire, but she did not look harmed. He paused as Gandalf reached into the flame, plucking the Ring from within the wood using a pair of tongs.

Gandalf stared down at the Ring. She looked back, refusing to show him her lettering; it would come out when she wanted it to, and not sooner. Gandalf told Frodo to hold out his hand, and she allowed the heat to escape, beginning to etch out her script from deep within. It would take a moment to surface.

Frodo held out his hand, for Gandalf told him it was not hot. The ring dropped into his palm, and he startled with the chill of it.

Gandalf stepped away. "Can you see anything?"

Frodo hesitantly glanced back at the wizard, wondered if Gandalf knew there was a woman inside. He didn't want to touch her, not after what she'd done to him, but Gandalf said nothing more. Frodo sucked in a breath and began twisting it over in his fingers, searching for any abnormality Gandalf could be looking for: a scorch mark, perhaps a sign of some sort, a chip in any piece of the ring.

She moaned pleasurably. Frodo had such a fleeting, gentle touch, and he wasn't holding her for himself, she could tell that much. She slowly stretched out the fingers of her hold, ready to grab him. But the barriers of his mind were strong.

Perhaps a kiss to his hand would do the job well. And she felt she would enjoy it too, if she got around to it before the armies of Mordor found her.

"Nothing," Frodo said, relieved, after a moment. "There's nothing." Gandalf also settled.

Finally, the Ring's etchings breached her surface. _Nothing, Frodo Baggins?_ She laughed to herself.

Frodo peered down at the metal; a bright light carved into the sides. "Wait." Gandalf tensed, waiting for what he had to say. "There are markings." It looked like an Elvish language, very old, written with fire in the sides of the ring. "It's some kind of Elvish," Frodo said. "I can't read it."

Gandalf exhaled resignedly. The Ring shivered; her day was come. And she intimidated all in this room with no reservation. The shadow of her mind filled the space of Bag End until Frodo could hardly breathe. "There are few who can," Gandalf admitted gravely as he turned to Frodo. "It is the language of Mordor, which I will not utter here."

The Ring laughed pleasurably as Frodo's eyes doubled with horror. "Mordor?" he breathed.

"In the common tongue it reads, 'One Ring to rule them all.'"

The Ring spoke it with him, slipping her soothingly sharp voice into Frodo's mind. The hobbit jolted. "One Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them."

Frodo couldn't wait to put her down, setting her at the end of the dining room table while he heated some tea for Gandalf. Gandalf explained her history; finally someone understood where she came from. How he learned her secrets she did not know, but now only deeper fear instilled in those aware of her presence accompanied her imminent return to her master.

Epiphany crushed Frodo as he surveyed her. She was the One Ring. Bilbo had found her in Gollum's cave; Sauron remained alive because of this Ring, and if he ever got it back he would have the strength to conquer Middle Earth once again. How she was an Enchantress, the bane of Isildur, Gollum, and even Bilbo. She had prolonged Bilbo's life.

And now she sought Frodo, or so he felt. He shuddered, remembering her wicked fingers stroking across his hand.

Frodo snatched the Ring off of the table, unable to bear the sight of her. The terrifying Elvish words on her had faded away, but he still couldn't shake the impact of them. "All right, then," he said, "we put her away! We never speak of her again!" He searched his burrow for a place to hide her. She cackled in his hands as he tried in vain to hide her. "No one knows she's here, do they?" He halted abruptly as she planted a thought in his mind, a memory that was not his own. He turned slowly to face the wizard behind him. "Do they, Gandalf?"

Even as Gandalf spoke of Gollum being found by the enemy, the Ring planted Sauron's vision to her in Frodo's mind. He could hear and see Gollum being tortured by the orcs . . . and the words he heard came out of his mouth.

"Shire," he said numbly. His voice escalated. "Baggins!" He stared at Gandalf, horrified. "But that would lead them here!"

The Ring shivered. The wraiths had reached the border of the Shire lands.

Frodo abruptly lifted her into the air, holding her towards the wizard. "Take it, Gandalf!"

The Ring nearly screamed. No one gave her up, especially not now. Not to a wizard like that . . . she supposed she could make the best of the situation. She turned to Gandalf in her mind; perhaps he would be a powerful asset.

But Gandalf denied the opportunity to take the Ring. Frodo's refusal to keep her still irked her—he held her, and he was willing to give her up. It was the kiss on the hand; she had to get to it immediately, before Frodo let her go. Unless the armies of Sauron came to her aid first, then perhaps she could let him go, watch him bleed to death on the floor.

"I would bear this Ring with the intent to do good," Gandalf said shakily, eyeing the Ring, "but through me she would do evil too great and terrible to imagine."

 _Touché,_ the Ring thought sarcastically. _At least you know I'm more powerful than you are; you're not as demented and dull as you look._

"But she cannot stay in the Shire!" Frodo insisted.

Gandalf shook his head, agreeing vocally. "No. It is not safe for her to be here."

The Ring shuddered with sadistic delight as Frodo closed her in his soft fingers. He swallowed; she spread a sickening warmth from his fingertips into his entire body, warming and warning him. Apprehension cluttered his mind, but he knew he had no choice.

"What must I do?"

He put her in his pocket as Gandalf ordered him. He would leave the Shire and go by the name Underhill; Gandalf told him to meet him at the Prancing Pony tavern in Bree. When he told Frodo he planned to see the head of his order, the Ring laughed sourly. Oh, Gandalf was in for a nasty jolt when he discovered Saruman had turned to Sauron's side.

When Gandalf finished helping Frodo prepare, he surveyed the hobbit. Such a small, bright little creature, completely naïve to the dangers he held in his pocket but willing and brave enough to do anything for the benefit of the world.

"My brave lad," Gandalf said gently. "You can learn all there is to know about hobbits in a month, and after a hundred years, they can still surprise you."

Frodo beamed up at him with a sweet, actually somewhat excited smile. He felt the thrill of adventure just a little, although hadn't expected the fate of the world to be so closely tied to him via a small trip to Bree. But it would be his first time out of the Shire, and that interested him more than anything.

Sam ended up joining them, scaring Frodo nigh to a heart attack when he rustled in the bushes outside the window. For a brief moment, before Gandalf dragged the hobbit up from behind the windowsill, the Ring thought the wraiths were there to take her away, and her heart flared; they couldn't take her from Frodo, not yet. When it turned out to be but a humble hobbit, the Ring angrily asserted to herself that she didn't really want to stay with Frodo and grew livid at her reaction to perhaps being saved from this Shire.

They left close to dawn. Frodo asked Sam if they could have Sev come along, but Gandalf cut him off. This was no adventure for a lass, he told Frodo. Frodo asked if he could say goodbye, but Sam said she didn't like goodbyes. Besides, they had to get moving immediately before the dark forces could catch up with the Ring.

And so they left the Shire without telling a soul.


	9. Delamarth - Frodo

Before Gandalf left them to find Saruman, he warned Frodo never to put on the Ring. She scoffed at him from within Frodo's pocket.

 _We'll see about that, you old magician._

Gandalf glared down hard at her, then turned, mounted his horse, and left the two hobbits with her. She decided now was the time to really get down to mesmerizing Frodo. She did not summon the wraiths for some time.

The walk was simple across the Shire for the first few weeks. While Sam had his doubts about traveling the whole way, Frodo was confident his gardener had the strength and bravery somewhere within him to walk all of Middle Earth, much less simply to Bree. They rested often, ate often from the meats Sam had packed, cooked in his best pots over the fire. Frodo sat up in the crook of a tree reading, and the Ring pondered breaking out of his pocket. She listened to the sizzle of meat and wished Sam would leave her alone with Frodo: she couldn't be quite as effective with an external party watching them.

She would have to wait until nightfall.

Frodo set his book aside. He couldn't take his mind from Sev, much as he wished he could focus on the task at hand. He wondered what she was doing . . . who he could talk to in her absence. He had thoughts cluttering his mind from the past few weeks, from seeing the world so much more open than he ever had before.

As he let his thoughts wander, he thought he could hear a faint, mournful song. He straightened, sitting upright to hear it better. Finally he could hear it more clearly: it neared at a very slow pace. It had a wistful air, beautiful, pristine, and gentle.

It could only be one thing.

He stared down at Sam. "Sam! Wood elves!"

The gardener perked up, and both of them raced through the woods toward the sound. They approached quietly when they knew they were close, for they did not wish to disturb the elves. They ducked behind a huge log, watching as the white train moved slowly forward.

Frodo listened to the elvish song, then translated for Sam. His eyes grew soft and sorrowful as he spoke of what he heard. "They're going to the harbor beyond the White Towers," he said gently, "to the Grey Havens."

"They're leaving Middle Earth!" Sam whispered epiphanically.

"Never to return," Frodo finished.

"Frodo!"

Frodo's head shot up. He heard his name repeated softly, and it echoed through the woods with almost desperation. He wondered if the voice had come out of his head . . . as though a vision of sorts. He could find no source for it.

"I don't know why," Sam said suddenly, "it makes me sad."

They stayed for another moment before turning back. They set up camp not too far away, listening to the song of the elves as it faded into the quiet wood. Frodo heard his name again, more than confused at why he would hear it out here. Perhaps it was the Ring. He shot his gaze to his pocket, but she was still inside, not a woman for the present.

Frodo settled down to bed early. The Ring awaited her moment, listened for deep breathing from Sam. But the two hobbits were far enough away from each other that she couldn't hear Sam at all; she rolled out of Frodo's pocket, clattering to the ground. But Frodo couldn't hear her, having almost slipped into sleep. She moved to melt . . . then Sam spoke abruptly. She remained silent and still, spitting out curse words in her mind at Sam. The faster she got this done the better off she would be.

"Everywhere I lie there's a great, dirty root sticking into my back," Sam said exasperatedly, tossing.

Frodo inhaled slowly to speak. The Ring watched him, intrigued by the way he simply moved, although she didn't understand why he interested her so.

He was too tired to let Sam stay awake. "Just shut your eyes," he mumbled, "and imagine you're back in your own bed . . . with a soft mattress and a lovely feather pillow." He could imagine himself there; that was how he got so close to sleep in the first place. He listened for Sam, but the hobbit had gone quiet, so Frodo felt safe to sleep.

Sam's voice again filled the air a moment later. "It's not working, Mr. Frodo; I'll never get any sleep out here." The Ring waited for Frodo to angrily tell Sam to sleep anyway, but instead a smile stretched across his face. The Ring paused; he had such a lovely smile. She wanted to touch it, and couldn't wait for Sam to sleep so she could.

"Me neither, Sam," Frodo said gently.

The Ring detected no bitterness in his words, despite her consideration that there should be. He sounded perfectly sincere, gentle, caring, if not exhausted. She allowed Frodo's eyes to sink closed and his breathing to become beautifully even before she cracked, then stretched and melted into a woman. Sam eventually fell asleep, but it took at least an hour or so. She watched patiently as Sam's face slowly relaxed, and the embers of the fire slipped into darkness.

She stared down at her hair; dissatisfied with her lack of transition, she shifted back into a hobbit-sized version her original form, the persona she had not been since the defeat of Sauron. Perhaps Frodo had to be awake. She reached forward . . . then slowed. She wanted to savor this moment a little bit, although logic stated that she ought to summon the wraiths or at least start hacking into Frodo's mentality.

But he would be hard to get in to, she rationalized. She had to wait, had to let herself seep in, for to practice impatience on him would only get him to push her away.

The Ring allowed her fingers to slip over his shoulder, and she shuddered excitedly while she fingered aside his cloak. Frodo's initial relaxation faded away as she entered his rest, silently dragged her fingers up the side of his neck to cup his cheek. She'd never touched anything so . . . flawless before. Frodo had an exquisite light to him that she wanted to hold softly until she tightened her grip and her fingers crushed it. She wanted to watch it shatter into a million shards of glass, just so she could look through all of them one at a time. They would be so pretty—the screams of his pain would always echo throughout her mind; she would remember them with sadistic glee.

Her previous encounters with Frodo had not been like her first experiences with most of her slaves, and she intended to change his perspective of her. Fear was a good start, but attraction would work even better. Besides that, the attraction approach would probably work best in the context of a stubborn, bright, handsome lad.

She surveyed him for one more moment before she slid closer to him on the ground. She bent down low towards him, and when she whispered to him her lips touched his ear. His curls tickled her jaw.

"Frodo."

Frodo jolted awake, and she sat up slowly while he regained consciousness. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, yawning rather openly until he spotted her. His eyes shot wide open, and he scrambled back in his cloak. His shoulder tingled, as did his ear and his neck. He swallowed, trying to shake the sensation away. She looked darkly pleased.

"What are you doing here?" Frodo's tone swelled from timid to threatening as he remembered what Sev had told him about warding off the Ring's touch.

The Ring tsked; she hadn't expected such a reaction from him. Apparently things had changed, perhaps at Gandalf's discovery of her identity. "Come, love, I'm not here to harm you. I am but the Ring . . . here to serve the one who owns me." She reached forward, allowing her tone to soften, stretching out her fingers for his hand.

Frodo's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe a word she said; he didn't understand why anyone found her tempting. The way she called him "love," the way she looked at him like a juicy apple ready to be crushed, the way her voice scratched him like ridged fingernails. He shuddered, pulling farther away.

"I do not own you," he muttered. "You work for Sauron alone. And why call me 'love' in a context where that makes no difference to you? I must be nothing more than a pawn in your world."

She laughed, and it chilled him to the core. "A pawn? Frodo, you hold my very life in your hands." She reached forward again, but before he could yank away she collected his fingers in her own, trapping them. She had to have him, had to do it. Perhaps he would be more permeable, would carry her to Mordor, if she kissed his hand. But his psyche was a tricky thing, the likes of which she'd never attempted to breach before. "I am but a servant."

"A servant of the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord alone," Frodo repeated, trying to yank his hand from her. He feared attempting to pry her fingers off; she felt so powerful, and would likely catch his other hand in the process.

The Ring shrugged, slowly sliding closer to him. "Perhaps. But couldn't I be yours?" Frodo backed away as she neared, nearly to the coals of the fire behind him. He staggered against the ground. "I could be your Precious," she whispered. "I am your Precious. I could grant you anything your heart desired, Frodo." She lifted one arm in surrender. "I am not harmful at present; I am not strong enough yet to betray you. _Use_ me, use me while I am here." She reached forward, cupping his cheek with one hand. Frodo strained away from her, and her fingers traced down his neck to his shoulder. "Call me by my name. Call me your Precious."

Frodo's eyes sealed shut as her lips neared his knuckles. She was so close when a word came out of him.

She might have thought it was "no," save it didn't sound like a "no." It sounded different . . . Elvish. But it carried the same dark tone as a refusal.

The Ring paused. "What?"

"Del amarth," Frodo said under his breath. His eyes opened again, and she noticed just how shiny and clear they were. He looked defiant, and that frightened her. "Delamarth. Horror and doom, that is all you are." He snatched his hand away from her loosening grip. "And that is what I will call you; you are not precious to me, but I will not call you the One, nor will I call you the Ring."

She mused over that. "Delamarth." Then she let her head cock almost innocently. "How sweet of you to name me." She reached forward to kiss his cheek, but he braced his hand against her shoulder, pushing her very deliberately back. He rolled over, away from her.

"If you care anything for me," Frodo nigh snapped (only for fear of what she could do to him), "you would allow me to sleep." He trembled a little. He didn't understand what she wanted from him, probably only to convince him to take her back to Mordor. He shivered harder, wishing she would leave him alone. Only to Bree: then he would be rid of her. He couldn't imagine how much terror she'd wrought just by convincing a man that she loved him. "Love" . . . her tone still snaked through his mind like a serpent, harmful and sleek with something caught between a horrible truth and an endearing lie.

The Ring—Delamarth, she could concede thinking of herself that way—watched with a great deal of satisfaction as Frodo shook, curling up tighter and tighter in his cloak. She slinked across the cold ground towards him, and he stiffened when she wrapped an arm around his waist, laid her head down on his shoulder. He strained not to shove her off, although he wondered if to do so would be wiser than to let her stay in place.

"I'm willing to give my new master a chance," she said pleadingly. Her fingers traced over his shoulder, down from her to his jaw. He shifted away from her, but she followed, persistently reaching for him. "Come now," she said. "Don't you find me beautiful, Frodo?"

He stiffened suddenly, then spun around to face her. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He sat up, and she came with him, refusing to let go. The way his eyes flickered over her face she almost thought she had him. She reached up to kiss him, but he turned sharply away.

"Some have mentioned to me that I strike them as a gentlehobbit," he said patiently, staring into her golden eyes, "but for the present I would be more than willing to throw that title away if it meant you would leave me be to rest." Furiosity and fear bubbled inside of him, but he swallowed it back. "Should you become more physically aggressive, Delamarth, so help me—I am not capable of hurting a woman, but you are no woman, and it would not leave a mark on my conscience for all the wickedness you have stored within you if I were but to protect myself from your trickery."

He glared at her hard, and she only blinked in response to his speech. She let her hands slide down his arms, hesitant to leave him, but he had his eyes set in iron: Frodo would not budge. He had to remind himself that he was not chastising a gentle, perhaps well-meaning, lass, but refusing an evil servant of the Dark Lord, who had caused the destruction of millions and would do more if she had the chance.

She could do nothing good for him.

Delamarth shrugged. "Acceptable." Then she paused. Frodo nearly scrambled back at the livid gleam in her eyes, one of hatred and vengeance that stirred deep . . . but passion, longing, lingered below that layer of darkness. She frightened him more than anything he'd ever seen in his life for more reasons than one.

She traced a finger down his jaw. "But remember this, Frodo Baggins . . ." She reached up, and her fingers snatched his collar before he could go anywhere. He strained away from her, breathing hard, as her lips neared his ear. "I have never lost a fight with a man. Not in a thousand years, not in the presence of any adversary in any part of the globe. So they resist, they win their battles,"—her voice sank into a chilling whisper—"but I always win in the end. The Dark Lord, King Isildur, little Gollum, your uncle, are all in my hold. The armies of men, the forces of Mordor, even Gandalf the Grey." She let her lips touch his cheek, and he shuddered. "And soon so will you, little halfling."

Before Frodo could strike her away, she crunched into her Ring form with a triumphant laugh. She watched his terror as he stared down at her, unsure whether to put her back in his pocket or leave her out—to do the first would be to encourage her pursuit of him (potentially), but to leave her be would be to put the fate of the world at stake, assuming Sauron's servants were already on their way.

He hesitantly picked her up, and he shivered when she trembled excitedly in his fingers.

 _Oh, put me on, great master,_ she taunted. _Slip me over your finger, and perhaps I shall leave the rest of you alone._

Frodo hastily tucked her into his pocket, then gripped the fabric. He sank to the ground, now thoroughly exhausted. She rolled against his chest; she would have him to the end of her time away from Sauron. She wondered if she could hide Frodo for a few hundred years as she had Gollum, or perhaps she could stretch his life as she had Bilbo's, or caress him as she had Isildur.

He needed something more from her, though, for no method she had tried before would convince him to want her.

She conceded bitterly that he was the first slave she had who did not pretend to love her. At least he was right in his head, made his feelings clear.

Frodo had a nightmare about her that night, and he rolled up tighter in his cloak subconsciously. He only had to survive until Bree, two days' travel away at most. Then he could be rid of this accursed Ring and all the trouble that accompanied her.

"Delamarth . . ." he muttered in his sleep.

She smiled wickedly to herself.


	10. Drown in Me - Frodo

Pippin and Merry stumbled across them in a cornfield the next day, which surprised Frodo and Sam greatly. Delamarth couldn't abide the addition of two other hobbits, and so she screamed for the Nazgul. She received a distant shriek in response: one happened to be relatively nearby, and he could at least drive the other hobbits away from her Frodo. She wanted to trap the last, make him want her before she broke him for good. What he'd done the night before ignited her fire, her need to have him on her chain and then shatter him. Oh, the satisfaction when he lay in pieces on the ground . . .

The hobbits took a tumble down a cliff near the cornfield where they'd found Pippin and Merry; as soon as they were up, and brushed themselves off, Delamarth yanked on the black rider. He was so close. She just needed to get Frodo off the road, and the other hobbits would be slain before the lad could blink.

She pulled on him to back away from the road.

Frodo didn't know where the thought came from, but he turned to peer down into the main path of the forest. A light breeze stirred in the distance, and a warning arose in his heart.

He turned to his companions, all gathered around a little pile of mushrooms they'd found.

"I think we should get off the road," he said simply.

Delamarth rolled her eyes; he wasn't worried enough. She dragged on space itself until the edge of the forest, from Frodo's vision, began to bend, flattening, as though warning him with its dying breath. She stirred a light wind just before Frodo's feet—the leaves on the ground fluttered dangerously.

"Get off the road!" Frodo shouted, suddenly terrified. "Quick!"

He ushered his companions to a nearby ridge and stuffed them under a tree root. Delamarth growled to herself; of course he would take care of them first. She waited while he settled in place with his friends, then pulled tantalizingly on the Ringwraith.

Chills of familiarity raced up her back as the wraith approached. His huge battlehorse, breathing heavily, stamped its heavy hooves. She played with their minds for a moment.

 _Oh, how near you feel . . . if only I could see you . . ._

Sauron stirred in the East. The rider responded, searching deeply for the Ring, for his will was seared to Sauron's, and his love of the Ring overpowered him every bit as much. He dismounted his horse, and fear began to trickle into the hobbits. Frodo sat back and swallowed as cold terror, not unlike that of Delamarth's very presence, filled him. Having her in his pocket didn't help any: she became a solid, icy weight on his chest, pressing harder as the wraith neared.

 _Bend a little closer, love._ The wraith leaned over the tree root, and his armored fingers crunched against the wood, fruitlessly searching for her. She almost wanted to go back to Sauron . . . but in order to seal her location, Frodo had to put her on his finger.

She shifted her voice to him, trembling a little with anticipation. _Frodo, my dear._

Frodo's eyes began to sink closed. She reached into his mind, rubbing and stroking gently. Frodo only grew numb.

 _Oh, you poor thing,_ she said gently. _You're so terrified and cold, leaving home with the world at stake. I can turn you invisible, remember? Come, slip the metal over your finger. I'm a perfect fit for you, Frodo. Come._

She sent none of her words in concrete sounds to him, for he would not accept them. She sent the general idea of sympathy, as well as the hint that he ought to put her on his finger. His hand snaked towards his pocket, and she pushed him harder: through the chill of his terror he could hardly process his own actions. She slipped into his grip, delighting in the change. He strained as much as he could against her, but it soon grew impossible.

She neared his finger, and the Nazgul's horse shrieked. The rider himself peered past the wood.

 _You cursed Nazgul_ , she spat to herself. _I'm right here._

She'd almost made it to Frodo's fingertip when Sam noticed Frodo trying to put on the Ring. He grabbed Frodo's wrist, and the hobbit's eyes shot wide open at the realization of what he'd been about to do. He pulled her into his palm, then slipped her back into his pocket.

 _Cursed rider!_ Delamarth's voice echoed almost out loud with the force of it. Then she realized this gave her more time to control Frodo: if he'd given up then, she would have wished to go back to Sauron. But she had to conquer this little mountain first.

The Nazgul perked up. She screamed so loudly he couldn't decipher words, but he could tell she was nearby.

Merry, not entirely sure of what had struck such powerful panic in the hobbits but frightened all the same, grabbed his pack of vegetables and frantically threw it over the other side of the tree. It crunched against the ground some yards away, and the Nazgul tore away from the tree root with a mighty shriek, remounting its horse.

Delamarth dragged the Nazgul along as the hobbits ran away through the woods. She laughed in Frodo's mind, and he shuddered: his fear of the Nazgul, of what he'd gotten himself into by accepting her as a burden, was all too obvious in his eyes. He glared down at her.

"We're almost to Bree," he muttered. "Gandalf will take care of you, I'm sure. Now leave me be."

 _I follow only your instructions, love,_ she laughed. The Nazgul on horseback sprang out from behind a tree, and as Frodo began to run frantically she laughed again. She twisted ferns and tree roots in his way, causing him to stumble and lose pace with the other hobbits.

"Leave me be!" Frodo cried, racing for Buckleberry Ferry. The other hobbits were already on board, hastily loosening the ropes that connected the raft to the dock. Frightened and hurried, they yelled to him helplessly. He ran down the dock, glancing over his shoulder fleetingly at the Ringwraith pursuing him. He didn't think he would make it.

Delamarth laughed. _Go ahead; jump, love, and drown with my arms around you. You'd be a happier little corpse, I can promise you that._

Frodo shuddered, then leaped skillfully onto the raft. The Nazgul halted its horse; the beast reared and screeched mightily at the loss of its target. The Nazgul stared after the hobbits, releasing its own shriek before turning.

The breathless hobbit backed against the wooden planks as Delamarth continued to taunt him. _You're no match for them, love. Maybe if you let me be your slave I'll save you from them._ She laughed again. _Poor little halfling. Look at you, so frightened . . . so naïve . . . so adorable._

She continued from there and sounded frighteningly sincere (in fact felt frighteningly sincere), but Frodo tried to shake her away. "How far away is the nearest crossing?" he asked frantically around her words.

"Brandywine Bridge," Merry said, shoving them away from the shore. "20 miles."

Frodo relaxed; they were close enough to Bree.

 _You think you've won,_ Delamarth mused tauntingly. Then she paused, not caring that Frodo could hear her thoughts. _Your hair looks so soft. I wonder if it would feel as good to you as it would to me, were I to handle it for a while. I've been told I'm a gentlewoman . . . I'm sorry, I'm not a woman, am I? I'm a gentle_ servant of the Dark Lord, _and no doubt my touch could sink you into gentle rest. Come now, Frodo. Tender fingers sifting through your hair, stroking your head . . . let me give my power to you._

Frodo shuddered, drawing into himself.

"Leave me," he whispered. "And do not speak such things, for I shall never let you."

 _Suit yourself._ She grew distasteful, bitter. _Don't forget my promise, Frodo. You will be mine._

Gandalf was not at the Prancing Pony. Frodo sat, helpless, at a huge table made for drunk warrior men, not for hobbit strangers that bore a heavy burden. The entire tavern gave off a sinister air: some men had rats and cats that shared their food, and all the rest guffawed and shouted in a drunken stupor. The lamps were dirty and low, giving the room a dark glow.

Frodo didn't touch his ale. He tried to convince himself that Gandalf would be there; he even told Sam so, but he almost couldn't believe it himself. They didn't know what to do with the Ring.

She did not laugh. She felt too good to laugh; she couldn't have even guessed this would happen. She had anticipated everything going according to Frodo's plans and ruining them herself, but this worked out just right. She did not feel bad, but thought that sympathy would break through Frodo acceptably well.

 _I'm sorry, love,_ she said gently. Frodo's eyes shot wide open. _I know this must be so discouraging for you._

Shock tingled through Frodo, but he couldn't thank her. It would give her too much of an avenue into his head.

Luckily Sam interrupted her; she asserted that she would get rid of the hobbit if it killed him. He pointed across Frodo's lap to another corner of the tavern. "That fellow's been nothing but staring at you since we arrived," he said protectively.

Frodo hesitantly lifted his eyes to a hooded man, sitting some distance away from them. He smoked a long pipe, not moving when Frodo's gaze fell on him. Frodo learned from Mr. Butterbur that the man was a Ranger named Strider.

He repeated the name to himself, if anything only to distract him from Delamarth's voice in his mind. But she entered again, rubbing on his mind. She could envision holding him in her lap, soothing him into a gentle rest. He felt it as well; he slipped her into his fingers a little subconsciously, turning her over and over as she wanted. His touch comforted her somehow.

But then Sauron broke through, hunting for her. She almost snapped at him to back away . . . until she realized this was her master.

 _Baggins,_ Sauron growled. _Baggins. Baggins . . ._

Frodo's eyes shot wide open when he heard Pippin saying his name. He spun around, not even caring to know why Pippin was discussing him: he recalled that Pippin had probably only heard Frodo referred to as Underhill once. He sprang through the crowded tavern, grabbing Pippin's elbow. The startled hobbit accidentally shoved Frodo back.

Delamarth didn't entirely know what to think when Frodo fell back and she flew up in the air, catching the eye of the Ranger in the corner. Frodo reached for her, but she shifted away. She lighted above his finger and shoved down hard, slipping over his knuckle. He promptly vanished.

A gasp arose in the tavern, but Delamarth cared not. She moaned, caressing his finger: never had an attachment felt so good for the triumph she'd attained and the smooth warmth of this little hobbit as a whole. Even Sauron didn't feel so pleasant. She couldn't believe she'd managed it, but she determined never to let go if she didn't have to.

Frodo scrambled out of view of the men of the tavern, shocked that she'd made it onto his finger. He might have ripped her away if Sauron's voice didn't interrupt him. Frodo's gaze widened as a lidless eye, burning with fire and hatred, floated slowly through the room towards him. Sauron's voice crackled and rumbled with dark energy.

 _I see you. You cannot hide . . ._

Frodo tore the Ring from his finger, and she sighed with the sudden departure of warmth. He stuffed her into his pocket, but didn't have a moment to recover before a hand gripped his shoulder hard. He gasped, thinking it was her, until he stared up into the dark eyes of Strider.

"You draw far too much attention to yourself, Mr. Underhill."

Despite all of Delamarth's calls and cries, the Nazgul did not find them that night. Somehow that gladdened her.

Frodo grew ever darker. Strider told him what the Nazgul were, and told him he would assist them in their quest to be rid of the Ring. She chuckled to herself; this was not going the way planned at all, and she loved it. At any moment she could slip from Frodo's grasp and call the Ringwraiths to her side, but she didn't wish to just yet.

She wanted more sway over Frodo—then she could leave.

They set out quickly from Bree, crossing the rocky country into the wild, or so Strider said. He told them he was taking them to the elves, at the house of Elrond in Rivendell. Delamarth hissed at the mention of Elrond's name . . . but accepted that she could infiltrate such a place of light, such a place of cowardice. The elves were fleeing Middle Earth. They should be fighting the battle; she would be satisfied to see their blood spilled and their pride ruined, watch them driven back.

Perhaps they thought Sauron more than a match for their armies, and for a moment Delamarth was mildly impressed.

Frodo felt no better that night as they lay down to rest. He feared the Ring becoming a woman again, but Strider did not fall asleep, and so she did not appear to him. She listened to the nervous thuds of his heart and wondered if his heart would ever belong to her. She scoffed at the thought; hearts were not stolen, only the foolish aspects of the mind. Her heart carried a deep, dark core, and at the center of every creature (the heart as most thought was stolen by another) lay nothing but selfish desire, no matter how fine-tuned the external character.

Strider soon began to sing. It was a mournful song, lamenting the loss of a woman. Frodo tossed with thoughts of Sev, then slowly sat up.

"Who is she?" he asked softly.

Strider startled, then turned to Frodo.

"This woman you sing of," the hobbit clarified.

The Ranger settled. He told him it was the Lay of Luthien, an elf who loved a mortal that died at the end of her tale. Frodo grew a little troubled, but Delamarth rolled around in Frodo's pocket. The story made her shift a little bit, as though love was worth sacrifice. What could be so powerful it was worth giving yourself up for it?

Then you couldn't have it.

Then she pondered as Frodo's lungs swelled and settled like a gentle tide beneath her: he lived by love. He believed in it.

"Poor, handsome little fool."

 **Basically the tag at the end of the chapter heading-Sauron, Bilbo, Frodo, whomever it may be-denotes not who holds the Ring, but who is enslaved, if you will. That'll change later; it's not just Frodo for the rest of the story. ;)**

 **A huge thank you to all those that have read, and a MEGA thank you to all those that have reviewed, favorited, and followed! :) As always, reviews are much appreciated.**


	11. Dark Advances - Frodo

**I hope she's creepy. XD That's what I designed her to be. Hope you like!**

They traveled to Weathertop the next day. Delamarth allowed Frodo to rest, for although Strider left them, the other hobbits were still nearby. She tried to whisper to him, but he fell asleep too fast. The past few days had been the most uncomfortably chilly and confusing of Frodo's life, and he needed rest when he could find the peace of mind for it.

He awoke to the smell of bacon, perhaps a bit of sausage . . . and the smell of smoke. His eyes shot open wide, and he turned over in place only to see his companions gathered around a small fire.

"What are you doing?!" he cried, grabbing at the Ring. She cackled at him triumphantly as he rose from his cloak and put out the fire, frantic and a little disbelieving. He didn't dare to respond to her, much less tell her to quiet.

 _They've doomed you! And you call_ me _'amarth.'_ She laughed. _You've brought me my salvation, love; I thank you._

Nazgul shrieks filled the air. Delamarth began tormenting him, prodding him as he raced up the stairs with his companions. Sweat pricked Frodo's forehead; she thudded against his chest, making his heart speed up unnecessarily.

 _Run, little hobbit. It's a dead end . . ._

The hobbits huddled while the Nazgul approached them. Delamarth didn't call to the riders; she didn't have to, for they would either kill Frodo if not at least search him. Sam tried to attack them, as did Merry and Pippin, but all three were easily thrown aside. The Ring shoved her strength into Frodo's hand, and his sword slipped away from his fingers. She slammed against his chest, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling away from his brooding enemy.

 _Bring me to the open, Baggins,_ she hissed; the dark energy of her former glory swallowed every desire for Frodo she had. Frodo subconsciously slipped her out of his pocket, holding her up. The five Nazgul gathered within the Weathertop ruins all looked to Frodo, and the Witch-King—not the only one Delamarth could pick out from the rest—stepped forward with a Morgul blade in hand. She trembled excitedly; Frodo would become more than simple to conquer as a wraith.

Why did that unsettle her just a little?

She longed for his warmth suddenly.

 _Put me on, love,_ she said unusually gently. _Put me round your finger . . . that's it . . ._

She turned him invisible, although she knew it would do him more harm than good. The wraiths appeared before him, more ghosts with ruined crowns than kings of men. The one at the head of the group reached out for the Ring.

Her initial nature reached back. She dragged Frodo's hand up with her, however much he strained. His strength impressed her, and only surprised her more when he let out a grunt and yanked his hand completely away from the Ringwraith.

The Witch-King jolted away, perhaps surprised by Delamarth's lack of resistance to Frodo's strength. He abruptly reached forward and stabbed Frodo square in the shoulder with his Morgul blade. Delamarth anticipated Frodo's scream at first . . . but when it truly came out, it sickened her. She remained, frozen with horror, on his finger as he cried out helplessly. His voice twisted, agonized by the sudden, crunching chill that invaded his body. He yanked her from his finger the moment the blade left his shoulder, heaving to breathe beyond his blinding pain.

Delamarth listened to him, felt the tremors in his lungs, the chill spread throughout his once perfect body. She slacked almost guiltily.

If she didn't act quickly she would lose him.

Arwen was not fast enough. Delamarth tried to cry out to her, tell her that she wouldn't make it in time for Frodo to be healed. He would never really be healed, although they could keep him from passing into the shadow world . . . but only if the cursed horse hurried.

Delamarth did her best to interfere as little as possible, but the elf would not hear her, and so she had to act on her own. As the wraiths pursued them—not by the Ring's call, but by tracking alone—she drained the blackness from Frodo in as big of chunks as she could stand. Somehow she felt some panic at letting him go, at letting this creature of light take on a crushing identity that he never deserved or wanted.

Elrond finished his healing process. Delamarth waited for Frodo's eyes to open, but she was not present when he awakened and greeted Gandalf and Sam: Frodo's clothes were thrown aside during the healing process, with her still in the pocket.

Finally, when everything quieted, she slipped out of the pocket, morphing into a woman. She approached him gently. When he saw her, he stiffened in place and scrambled away from her. Then he winced, pulling at his Morgul stab.

*She sat down on the side of his bed. Everything hurt her here: the elves were too bright and ornate for her taste, but she had no choice at the moment.

"Leave me," Frodo managed.

Delamarth shook her head. "You are hurt."

He lifted an eyebrow, glaring a little. "You care? Or you can help?" Frodo shook his head. "I doubt either."

"You would be surprised, halfling," she snapped. "You were rather close to gone, and are too close to the shadow world to be issuing orders to the Mistress of Mordor." She reached forward for his Morgul stab; he tried to force her away, but she grabbed both of his wrists with one hand and latched them down onto the bed while she fingered aside the white bandage with her free fingers.

She shook her head, trying not to summon any feelings in remembering how his helpless sobs throbbed in her ears. She bit her lip, then fingered his wound again. Frodo squirmed at her touch; while it did not hurt, she frightened him.

"They really got you deeply, love," she murmured, turning up to stare into his eyes. They were so blue, not like the sky but more crystal. She reached up and traced his jaw—he wrenched away from her fingers, but could only do so much. "I'm sorry."

Frodo swallowed. "I know you're not," he whispered fearfully. "Were it not for the stories of old I wouldn't understand why you feign pity for me, but I know better than that. And now I have seen how you can scar a man. I bear one now, a sign that you care for your reunion with your lord Sauron and nothing else." He set his jaw. "If power is what you seek that is the one thing I cannot give you."

She gripped his face with her hand, and her eyes darkened. Frodo's own gaze doubled in size, waiting for what she would do. She leaned close to him, and he tried to scramble away from her. "You can give me power over you," she hissed. "Power over how you think, power over the weak resolve of mortals that currently resides in you." She cocked her head. "So many have given it to me; why do you shy away now?" She traced his cheek. "Why you, the most desirable of them all?"

Frodo broke away from her hands, yanking back with his torso. His wrists remained locked in place despite his efforts, but he managed to twist the rest of himself farther from her. He didn't want to know why she thought him desirable; it disturbed him greatly, and he attributed it to her nature. She had likely told this to all before him.

"Perhaps that question will never be answered," he managed, breathing hard, "for the elves are having a council in a few days to decide what will happen to you."

"And you will carry me until then," she said darkly. Then she softened her gaze, but Frodo could see the intensity growing behind them. "That doesn't give me much time, does it?"

Frodo's eyes widened.

"I do not know what your intentions are . . ."

She laughed. "I only intend to make you my own, Baggins." She paused, and her voice lowered. "Like I have so many—and yet you are different. I think I like a challenge." Delamarth glared into him until he slackened from defeated fear, but he was not remotely conquered yet. She could see the defiance simply retreating until a moment came when he had more strength.

She entwined her fingers with his and trapped one of his hands in her lap. He struggled, but he was no match, injured as he was. She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it slowly . . . but instead of burning and chilling him with need to have her, it did the reverse. Tingles attacked her, and she allowed the kiss to stay unusually long while her eyes sank closed and her lips pressed deeper against his skin. Frodo bit his lip, now completely afraid: she did not look livid anymore, but whatever she felt right then would mix with her ruthlessness and do its best to destroy him with however little time it had. He shuddered at the way her lips brushed his knuckles repeatedly, cold and more than accepting of him.

Delamarth broke away very carefully, feeling a bit dizzy. She obviously couldn't break into Frodo this way, for he was strong enough that the kiss changed course—he broke into _her._

She blinked hesitantly, shifting her gaze up to meet his. Frodo swallowed, too exhausted and terrified to back away. She cocked her head; she wondered if most that met her felt this way about her, so incredibly attached to something so dangerous and so desirable. He looked more amazing than anything she'd ever seen in her life, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to have him for her own.

Yes, she decided: this was exactly how _she_ was meant to make one feel. The tables were turned, but no matter which way fate faced, Delamarth could use it to her advantage.

His skin was soft, and she kissed his hand one more time, now gripping it with both of her own. With his free hand Frodo braced himself against the bed, dragging himself back from her suddenly at the horrifying touch. She smiled up at him.

"Rest now, love." She peered down at his shoulder, then touched the wound again. The black poison came up in a sticky liquid, one she recognized. Frodo watched, horrified, as she licked her finger, and her eyes rolled back. She grinned down at him.

"Darkness that comes from you," she murmured before condensing into a Ring. "What could be better?"


	12. I Am All That Awaits You - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: Thanks so much! :D I'm glad you like it; I hope it stays good. I'm a bit of an unpredictable nutcase . . . ;P**

Frodo resolved to be alone as little as possible from that point on. Something about the way she kissed his hand had changed her, and he didn't like it. He did not fear her so much physically as psychologically, although via physical things (relatively minor ones, he assumed) she could impact the rest of his life.

He counted down the hours to the council. He loved Rivendell and the elves that resided there—he felt at home. He found Bilbo there, and was more than excited to see him. Bilbo showed him his book, the Red Book of Westmarch.

"A Hobbit's Tale, by Bilbo Baggins!" Frodo surfed through the pages out on a stone balcony in Rivendell. Delamarth listened while he mused over them: she didn't realize he loved books so much, but supposed he could have received tastes from Bilbo. "This is wonderful," Frodo added as he thumbed through the diagrams, drawings, maps, and text.

"I meant to go back," Bilbo said; he sounded frail, and the Ring realized with a start that she'd let go of him rather abruptly. But she cared not, not really. "Visit Laketown, see Mirkwood, go to the Lonely Mountain again." He sat down beside Frodo with a sigh. "But age, it seems, is finally catching up with me."

She would have cackled to herself if Frodo didn't begin to speak wistfully; that trapped her attention.

"I miss the Shire," Frodo admitted, staring down into the Red Book at a map of his home. "I spent all my childhood pretending I was off somewhere else . . . off with you, on one of your adventures!" He smiled at Bilbo, but then his expression grew solemn, sorrowful. Delamarth wondered at his change in tone, the change in his pulse so close to her, the chill racing through his Morgul stab: did she feel guilty or pleased? She did not know. "My own adventure turned out to be quite different." Frodo turned his gaze to his lap, resisting reaching up to finger his wound. He closed his eyes. "I'm not like you, Bilbo."

Bilbo gave him an apologetic glance. Delamarth hesitated, wondering at how much Bilbo cared for his nephew. Never before had either been in a situation where this sort of pity had broken the surface of words and glances, leastwise not in her experience.

Frodo told Sam that the Ring would be safe in Rivendell, but even Frodo was unsure. He presented her to the council a few days after they arrived at the Elvish city; she sat perfectly still on the little stone table in the center of the gathered council, biding her time. Frodo apprehensively stared at her, knowing that things would be fine from here on out despite the stirring deep within him.

As the council progressed, the Ring listened, probed the personalities around her for those that would be most permeable. She found a man from Gondor, Boromir, that had a great deal of pride to him, and she didn't even have to pull to have his loyalty. He had good intentions, optimism about all that was wicked, leastwise what he deemed powerful enough to be helpful. That worked to her advantage. She was also interested then to learn that apparently Isildur had been married before meeting the Ring, for he had an heir: Strider, or Aragorn, son of Arathorn, at the council. He didn't seem easy to conquer, but if she got beyond his barriers he would be simple. Most of the rest of the council had a typical temperance against or for her, loathing her purpose but easy to reel in. Then she came back to Frodo, and her voice sweetly entered his mind. He shivered, gripping his forehead.

 _You can't leave, love,_ she gushed. _Look at you, frozen in place and unable to tear your eyes from me. Dear, I'm so flattered . . . it's a shame they'll take me away._

The dwarf, Gimli, attempted to destroy her with his axe. She laughed as he swung his weapon back to crush her; the laugh echoed throughout Frodo's head, and he leaned forward to warn Gimli. But the dwarf struck, although Delamarth didn't even have to brace herself against the blow. The dwarf's axe crashed into a thousand pieces, flying in different directions. She threw the dwarf back, and when the pressure of his weapon cracked on her she slapped Frodo with a vision of Sauron's eye.

Stung, the hobbit grappled for his head again. He couldn't but stare at her: she frightened him so much. She sneered back at him.

 _I'm indestructible, Baggins. I'll never leave you be._

Elrond stated gravely that the Ring would have to be taken back to Mount Doom, destroyed in the fires from which she was forged. Oh, back to Mordor at the hands of the elves themselves . . . Delamarth sighed somewhat excitedly. No one would have the strength.

An argument arose, for she stirred Boromir with a simple flicker of her golden curve: he insisted that no one could get into Mordor, for the land was well guarded by Sauron and his followers, and dangerous to venture through. He wanted to use her to assist his men at Gondor. Oh, he was too easy to handle. After being denied by Frodo, it almost sickened Delamarth that some creature could be bent so easily to her will. She scoffed at this Boromir, simultaneously reeling him in with her empty promises.

Conflict ensued, between elves and dwarfs, the men and Gandalf joining in. Delamarth spun them around, dizzied their very intellects, brought them to war. She laughed lowly. She could see a vision of fire upon them; she would have to do no real work save make them angry enough to conquer each other. The world was hers for the taking, with or without Sauron. She felt so powerful, so glorious . . . so beautiful.

But she slowed when her attention turned back to Frodo. Despite the thick darkness in the air, Frodo had not stirred—save to harden his glare. Delamarth glared back, challenging him. He could see what would befall the world if she lived.

 _What are you going to do about it, love?_ She tried to sound snappish, but in that moment she realized that if anyone in the council had the strength to carry her to Mount Doom, it was this little Bag End hobbit whose icy eyes were trained so intensely on her now. She shook her fear away as best she could, but it would not depart her fully. _You're just a halfling. You can change nothing._

Frodo did not trust her enough to believe he could do nothing. He saw the vision of fire, the destruction she would bring upon all if he did not sacrifice everything he had to destroy her. He might not have believed in himself if he didn't see the horror in her. Even though she sat still on the stone table, her golden eyes never left his mind: he could see her face on a constant basis.

But Delamarth feared him. The One Ring had given Middle Earth a chance, even if it came in the smallest of packages.

Now he knew what he had to do.

Frodo remained, frozen, in his bedroom most of the day following the council. At least all of his hobbit companions, Gimli the dwarf, Legolas the elf prince of Mirkwood, Gandalf, Strider (or Aragorn, as Frodo understood his true name to be), and Boromir of Gondor would be accompanying him, but Frodo still felt a little sick. He knew it could be no other way, unless he found some other that the Ring feared.

Perhaps she did not fear him. Perhaps it was a ruse, an attempt to suck him into her grasp by gaining more time to do so.

*She approached him that evening as he sat, numb, on his bed. She reached from behind him over his shoulders with both hands, joining them around his neck. Her head laid against his own; he struggled and broke free of her grasp. He didn't dare remain sitting, for she would follow.

"Come now, master," she taunted. Her eyes glinted wickedly. "We are to be the closest of companions in the coming months! Would you truly push me away?"

Frodo rubbed his upper arm. "As if I've done anything else," he muttered. "What do you want, Delamarth?"

She cocked her head innocently, then traced her fingers on the bed pole as she approached him. He scrambled back into the wall. "I want to help you," she said, letting her gaze travel to him. He kept his own stare off of her, but to instinctively protect himself he periodically looked back to make sure she didn't come any closer.

"Help me?" Frodo's brow creased. "Admittedly I do not believe you."

Delamarth shrugged, slowly drawing closer. Frodo circled her towards the door, but she reached out to bar his way. "Hear me out." At the sudden, business-like intensity of her tone, Frodo halted in place. Her eyes narrowed; she knew what he expected her to do to him, cornered like this, but she only wanted to make a suggestion that would ostensibly work to his advantage.

She waited for Frodo to relax. "Good." Then she stood upright, still bracing her arm up ahead of him with a slight drop. She let her opposite hand drift to her side, where within her dress pocket she had a trinket from Bilbo. She lifted it into the air, shivering with anticipation. Frodo eyed it warily as she held it out to him.

"A chain?"

She nodded. "Bilbo used to wear me around his neck. I can change size on your finger, if you don't recall him telling you that." Then Delamarth paused. "I hope he told you that . . . regardless, this makes it easier to keep track of me. Here," she said, reaching forward when he didn't take it from her. Frodo stumbled back into the corner of the wall, then accepted it hastily from her. She kept one hand on the chain, bringing her hand close to his heart when he recoiled. She casually twirled the links around her fingers, then bent down close to him. He shivered at her closeness, stiffened at her hissed whisper.

"Put me on it, love, and I'll show you everything it does." She had to hide a smirk as she shifted back into her Ring form, clattering to the floor. Frodo hesitated, wondering if he wanted her there. He swallowed; he didn't trust her so close to his chest, to his heart. She could kill him or kiss him—but only as a woman. He reached forward very slowly, then plucked her off the ground. She reveled in his touch as he slipped her over the chain, then looped it around his neck.

She made the change again suddenly, melting into a woman. It was the first time Frodo had seen that aspect of the transformation, and as she trickled down his vest he slammed up against the wall, shocked. The chain stretched and morphed with her, latching to her wrists and neck. The chain dripped from around his neck and locked in a cuff around his own wrist. The fine chain links wound around his fingers and secured them in a grip on the chain. He stared up at her, and she stepped back so he could survey her.

"Oh, don't be so surprised, love," she said irritably. "I told you I was trying to help you."

Frodo swallowed again. "I didn't think you meant it." Then he glanced down at the cuff on his wrist, how it connected to complete and total control over her that she couldn't wrench away. He relaxed away from the wall, and she took that as her cue to step forward. He dodged her towards the door.

"Not now," he said hastily. "Bilbo intends to grant me with some gifts before I go."

Delamarth's eyes narrowed; how did everyone manage to show her up in his eyes? She rationalized that Frodo wasn't exactly in a prime position to desire her, and had too much light to succumb to her presently; if nothing else the kiss to his hand should have proved that. She nodded slowly. "Indeed." Before he could add anything, she shifted back into a Ring. She and her chain sucked into their compact sizes around Frodo's neck. He inhaled shakily when she thudded against his heart—not hard, but definitely there.

As he walked, he waited for her to speak. Sure enough, he didn't even reach the door before she began speaking with her taunting, hissing voice.

 _This is much better than your pocket. I can hear your heart, love._ She sucked in a breath pleasurably, and Frodo staggered against the wall. _Faster and faster . . . keep going, keep my love living and afraid._

Frodo shook his head, straining to Bilbo's bedroom. When he crossed the threshold, Delamarth quieted at last. Bilbo greeted Frodo and immediately presented him with his sword, Sting. He then removed a shirt of mithril from the bed and held it up for Frodo. At first Delamarth hissed to herself at the sight of it . . . but then she wondered how Frodo would look in it. She bitterly resolved to snitch a tad of revenge on Frodo for resisting her earlier, and she stretched out her fingers to Bilbo.

He asked Frodo to try it on; the Ring couldn't wait for that, but she knew now was not the time. Frodo began to unbutton his shirt, but then Delamarth dragged Bilbo's gaze to her. He gasped, and Frodo glanced up worriedly.

"My old ring!" Bilbo said excitedly. Delamarth snickered as Frodo stared hopelessly at his uncle. "Could I hold her?" Bilbo reached forward slightly. "Just one last time?"

Frodo eyed his uncle suspiciously, then folded his shirt back over her. Bilbo's expression grew quickly furious, and he hissed, swiping at Frodo. The hobbit backed away, grabbing at the Ring while Bilbo calmed himself.

 _Dare to resist me, love?_ She laughed bitterly at Frodo. A vision snapped into Frodo's mind of Delamarth grabbing his shirt collar again, and he swallowed. _You aren't the only person I have to hurt to get to you. Every ally, every friend, every supporter of you, everyone you love, is only one more way I have control. There is nothing you can do to escape me._

 _I am all that awaits you._


	13. Leave Them, Love - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu - Hey, it's fun for me to hear from you too. X) Ha! Puns are awesome; that just made my day. Well . . . I'll put it this way: the canon-esque part of the saga will DEFINITELY be more "interesting" as you put it (if I'm guessing what you mean correctly XP), but there are a couple of . . . optional books, I guess, that follow this one, completely off-canon that sort of end this story if you like that wonky sort of thing. :D**

The quest began the next morning. From the moment they left, Delamarth knew she had to grow stronger quickly. They would make progress towards Mordor faster than she wished (assuming she wanted stronger power over Frodo), and she couldn't bide her time, accustomed to freely spending her power over lifetimes.

Gandalf noticed her strength growing before the mouth of Moria (particularly regarding Boromir; she didn't even have to work on the Gondor warrior for him to fall under her spell), and he confirmed it with Frodo. He warned Frodo that the Ring would gain sway over the other members of the Fellowship, and told Frodo only to trust himself. Delamarth didn't mind that; then perhaps Frodo would go off alone and allow her to take him.

They lost Gandalf in Moria, and almost Frodo. When the cave troll stabbed him the Ring didn't know whether to scream for shock or deeply embedded satisfaction. If he died, no one would have the strength to take her to Mordor . . . but she would lose the only creature in history to drive her deepest passion that she'd never discovered before. For a moment she felt empty, hearing that blade slide into the mithril by his side, completely terrified and unsure how to react.

But when she realized he was wearing his mithril coat she relaxed.

Pain would not leave Frodo in Moria, and Delamarth's presence wore down heavily on him. Gollum pursued them through the caves, and Delamarth felt a hint of possessiveness for Frodo. She didn't want Gollum to come back; she wanted Frodo to herself.

When Gandalf collapsed into the abyss, the Ring celebrated to herself. One less troublesome meddler in her affairs concerning Frodo; while it struck the hobbit beyond anything he'd felt since his parents died almost 24 years before, she couldn't have cared less in that moment. He was weak, vulnerable.

They had no time to mourn, moving quickly on to Rivendell. The Lady of Light spoke to Frodo alone, showed him the consequences of potential failure to complete his quest. Delamarth cackled in his ear when he saw his beloved Shire torn and burning. Somehow her reactions to his pain alternated, as though Sauron himself battled her wish to be sympathetic with Frodo.

She could feel her own soul tearing in pieces, unsure if she wanted Frodo or power.

Did she love him?

He attempted to give her up to Galadriel, and that distracted her temporarily from her inner turmoil. She didn't appreciate Frodo's repeated attempts to give her up, but seeing another powerful but permeable candidate, Delamarth couldn't resist dragging Galadriel into her influence. The Lady grew suddenly ambitious and powerful, relishing in her vision of glory before telling Frodo that the task was his, that the Ring would be taken to Mordor by none else.

This piqued Delamarth's interest very highly: those with prophetic powers beyond the Ring's even thought Frodo the best candidate to take her to the mountain. She anticipated, then, that no one would bear her instead.

Her path to Mordor would equal her path to her awakened ambitions for this hobbit.

Galadriel bestowed gifts upon the Fellowship before they departed the shores of Lorien. Frodo kept fingering the glass vial she'd given him, the Light of Earendil. Delamarth loathed the sight of it, hissed at it. It would only take Frodo from her, if anything, and she asserted that she would not let him use it.

As they sailed, she spoke to him very softly.

 _Mordor is not near, love._

He tried to block out her words with Galadriel's, but what the Lady had told him only made him more apprehensive towards the Ring, more on edge . . . potentially weaker, more susceptible to her will.

 _We have time. I have time. If you dare to resist me, it will only be stalling the inevitable. No one can help you now; Galadriel was right, for to be a Ringbearer is to be alone._ Then she paused. _To be a Ring is to be alone as well,_ she admitted. _You do not know what it is never to be loved. You think yourself unfortunate for being my bearer, to have me against your heart for so long . . ._ She lifted herself, thudding against his chest. He reached up and gripped her to keep her from moving. _But in truth, it is more than comforting for me. Sauron was not so warm, so welcoming. You call me Delamarth, but he never called me anything. You wear me because I ask—he wore me for his own benefit._

Frodo paused, not sure what she was getting at. But he didn't entirely want to know: she sounded like she was trying to make him think her more akin to him than to her own master, the one from which her soul was taken. He doubted that, and so ignored her words as best he could.

But only thoughts of her filled his mind. Home, Sev, Sam, would not last if he did not carry this burden. Bilbo wouldn't, and Gandalf was already gone. Muddled pain flooded Frodo's mind.

When they reached the shore, Frodo stumbled over the side of the canoe. Sam tried to help him, but Frodo felt so horribly hopeless, so sick. Sam sorrowfully turned away from his master, for Frodo spelled it out gently but clearly: Sam could do nothing to help him, not this time.

*Delamarth waited until all were asleep before she shifted into a woman. She could not leave Frodo, luckily enough, and he could not pull away from her. She laughed slightly—he would not rest well, whether or not she remained by him as a woman.

Frodo's eyes shot wide open when he felt her materialize. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, still facing her. He would let her in if he moved, and he couldn't let her.

"Well, Frodo?" she said tauntingly. "Tomorrow is only another day; why not call it at least a truce, take me to my demise while at least doing _something_ for me? So far all you've done is take my favors and refuse my affections—I shouldn't be helping you, but I am."

Frodo glared at her. "Helping me? Perhaps with the chain, but I can think of nothing else you have done save haunt and destroy my very being."

"I haven't kissed you yet," she pointed out darkly . . . "strangely attractive as you are." Frodo stiffened, backing away from her, but she followed him across the rocks, locked to his wrists at a close proximity. Frodo suddenly realized why she must have given him such stewardship over her, and he closed his eyes, swallowing slowly.

"You kissed my hand," he said, shaking as he remembered the experience. "Surely that is enough for you."

She sat upright suddenly, and he scrambled over the rocks away from her. "Never enough," she hissed, grabbing the brooch clipping his cloak together. Frodo inhaled sharply and braced his hands against the rocks under him. She thumbed the leaf at his neck, staring at it, studying it. She did it partially to intimidate him . . . but there was always that strangely sincere interest within her, that need to be near Frodo. She inched closer to him, and he bit his lower lip as though to protect anything of him that he could.

She cocked her head. "Not tonight, love," she said thoughtfully. She released the brooch, but only so she could cup the back of his neck. He swallowed and rolled his head out, away from her grasp.

Delamarth watched him as he averted his gaze, lying down on the rock. He folded his arms across his torso again.

"How do you do that?" she murmured.

Frodo eyed her worriedly. "How do I do what?"

She laid on her stomach, her nose nearly touching his own. She left one of her wrists as far back as it could stretch, and it kept him from moving away. The chain connecting to her neck draped over his collarbone, and he shuddered. She fingered the hair out of his face very gently. "How are you so infuriatingly stubborn? How are you so powerful in so many different ways?" She inhaled slowly, taking him in. This close to the hobbit, she felt irresistibly drawn to him. Suddenly Sauron did not matter; pain did not matter. Power, getting home . . . none of it mattered.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, only to the extent of slits.

"Pray, leave me be," he whispered.

Delamarth cocked her head, wondering why she should ever leave him alone. She conceded then that perhaps it could wait. She wanted him to be willing not only to accept her, but to show her he cared about her as well. She stroked his jaw.

"Very well," she said slowly. "I suppose I did tell you I would wait." Then she leaned down closer, her lips a breath away. Frodo didn't dare take that breath, or try to cross it. He lifted his other hand to push her off, but it halted on her shoulder. "You're only ignoring what will happen anyway. Take the agony now, and let the rest of it ride pleasurably beyond the useless lessons you think you've been taught."

Frodo's eyebrows drew together, and he pushed her back solidly. "And what will happen? What is it that you want?"

Delamarth paused. She wasn't entirely sure what she would do to him, or what she wanted. She decided on the first in moments.

"I will simply convince you that I belong to you, that you are truly my master." She dodged a lump in her throat as she realized just how little she'd always meant that . . . and how, regarding Frodo, it was becoming more truthful. Sauron never ruled her, but this little hobbit had just convinced her to hold off something she greatly anticipated simply because she promised that she would.

Then it came to answering what she wanted. She didn't want to respond to that, for something answered that she wanted Frodo and Frodo alone, that conquering the world meant far less if she could not have him.

Perplexed, she didn't say another word before she condensed into a Ring and clattered on the stone by his neck. Frodo exhaled powerfully, slumping against his cloak. He didn't even try to make himself comfortable: it wouldn't work. He hoped he could at least sleep a little bit.

Delamarth lay horribly confused all night long, and she couldn't abide it. She set her conviction hard . . . or so she thought. She just had to get back to Sauron: Frodo was taking her there anyway. And she happened to be in a swing of so much anger that she wanted to break him every step of the way. She just had to get him alone—having the rest of the Fellowship in company with them quickly grew inconvenient.

When they set out in their canoes the next morning, Delamarth saw Uruk-hai from Saruman the White on the river's eastern shore. If the Fellowship were all killed, that would make her life easier. She only hoped the wizard had ordered them to leave at least Frodo alive, for she did not want him killed mercifully and quickly. If they kept him prisoner, it would be the complete opposite of a hasty death.

Frodo felt the traces of sadistic pleasure in the Ring around his neck long before they landed. He skittered about in place, anxious to be gone, restless and afraid. The moment they came to shore he slipped quietly away from the Fellowship, into the woods.

Something shoved on him, something harsh and dark from behind. He started running, trying to throw off whatever forces the Ring had summoned to pursue him. His vision grew blurry, and finally he collapsed to the ground with the weight of the world on his neck.

Delamarth shifted into a woman there. She sat up on her knees beside Frodo's trembling form, then gripped the hood of his cloak. He scrambled away from her, but she had more initial strength; she dragged him to his feet and backed him up against a thick tree. He yanked this way and that, exhausted but not willing to be manipulated.

"Frodo!" she snapped, jolting him in an attempt to still him. She clamped his toes down on the ground with her heel, but one of his feet escaped. "Frodo, I'm not going to hurt you."

Frodo slowly stopped his struggling, staring at her with disbelief. She'd done nothing but hurt him since she'd met him, scarring him in one way or another in every instance together whether alone or not. He swallowed, surveying her carefully.

She laid her hands over his shoulders, pushing him slightly in to the tree. "I'm not going to hurt you," she repeated. The lad was insanely stubborn, too resistant. She'd been so close to kissing him, she wanted him to initially seal the gap—but he wouldn't do it. She'd frightened him too much, and somehow she couldn't decide if she preferred it that way.

Delamarth breathed slowly, allowing her eyes to sink closed. "You see what I have done to you," she said, trying to sound practical. Frodo would not agree if he thought she had an ulterior motive. "You see what I have done to Boromir, to Aragorn. They stir with fear."

"Why are you telling me this?" Frodo said hurriedly. He wanted her to leave him alone. "I know what you are. This is not going to convince me of anything to your advantage."

She nodded. "I know; I'm helping you."

His grip on the chain in his hands tightened and loosened. "The last time you told me that you trapped me," he muttered.

*One of her eyebrows arched; chills attacked Frodo as her lips stretched into a triumphantly wry smile. "So you figured that one out." She snaked her fingers up to the cuff at his wrist, and he abruptly dropped the chain. But he could do nothing now, not while she gripped the silver shackle latching him to his quest and bane.

"Indeed," he managed, backing into the tree. "Any more help you offer will be resisted; leave me. Please."

Delamarth mused over that for a minute, studying his wrist and fingers. He stood, clammy and limp, as she rolled his hand around—she studied it so casually from all he could see, but she felt impossibly possessive.

"No." She glanced up at him. "I'm certain you would agree with me on this one, love." She twirled the chain in her fingers, entwining her hand with his own. She locked him in place; he struggled against her grip, but she refused to let him go. Writhing he might have been, but his skin was too soft for her to simply release. She leaned forward, resting her jaw on his chest. She stared up at him from her vantage point, far too near and sinister for his liking. He looked away.

"As I was saying," she said quietly, "you've seen and felt what I can do." Her lips neared his ear. "You wouldn't want me to do this to your dear Samwise, would you?"

Frodo stiffened with horror.

Her smile curled back into place. She kissed his cheek very slowly, and he began to tremble. "Oh, poor Pippin and Merry . . . how long would they last? And that dwarf—he may have a thick neck, but it would not be difficult to squeeze the life out of him too." She brought her fingers up around Frodo's neck, tensing and relaxing them. He swallowed instinctively, trying to keep himself from blacking out entirely, trying to convince his body that she wouldn't kill him, not right now. She couldn't afford it. She kissed his cheek again, repeatedly and relentlessly, taken aback suddenly by how fulfilled it made her feel. He tried to shy away, but she didn't let go of his neck. He would choke if he backed off. "Legolas, impaled with his own arrows. I'm not a bad shot, you know. Boromir and Aragorn . . . I think I'll take them to battle, make them feel so proud of themselves, and squish them under the feet of the orcs. They would all be prisoners if I didn't kill them quickly. Orcs aren't merciful, Frodo Baggins. Your companions would be destroyed piece at a time, and they would beg for death before the end." She solidly pressed her cheek against Frodo's, and the back of his head hit the tree. He squeezed his eyes closed and bit his lip; she starkly opened up visions to everything she'd just told him. Frodo writhed in place, breathing harder and harder. Sweat slickened his palms as he scrambled against the tree. Delamarth lowered her hands from his neck, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her cheek did not leave his; she remained obstinately locked there.

"Leave them, Frodo," she demanded, "or I will destroy them all. One . . ." Her hand snaked around his back to his shoulder. "By . . ." Her other hand came to his heart and gripped his shirt collar. Her voice dropped to a solid hiss. "One."

Frodo's eyes flickered. Pain throbbed in every corner of his body as he surveyed this demon before him: her golden irises shimmered with simmering . . . not hatred, but something far, far worse. Some sort of dark obsession stared back at him, a selfish desire unrivaled by anything he'd ever seen. He assumed it was the need to get back to Sauron, but it didn't look right.

"What do you want?" he breathed at last. "Why would you do it to them? Why now?"

Delamarth tightened her hold, flexing her fingers over his shoulder and shirt collar. "Does that truly concern you, Frodo?" Her lips neared his own, and he bit the lower one back. "Do my desires and intentions alter your decision? Is that what you're telling me?"

Frodo sealed his eyes shut. "Perhaps it is. If you're telling me to leave them to their deaths, I will not go. I would rather die with them than complete my quest, for to finish it with them dead is to give me no one to fight for, and to abandon them to destruction is to say I haven't the courage to face anything. I will not have the strength to journey on without them."

The Ring glared at him, slowly releasing him. He settled slightly while she backed away. She didn't understand his dedication to his companions, not when he had the creature every being in the world desired to some extent before him. She had to isolate him; she had him alone for now, but she needed more time.

"All right. I shan't kill them," she muttered.

"You are not honest in any way!" Frodo snapped, now strengthened by the distance between them. "Can I trust you at all? I shall not leave them, now that you've suggested it."

Delamarth grabbed the chain and yanked on him. Frodo stumbled forward with the strength she threw into her pull, and she skillfully wrapped the shackles around his waist thrice, locking his arms in to his sides and his legs together.

"Leave them, love," she hissed. "I will forget them if you take me back to Mordor."

Frodo glared at her hard, but she could see something within him crumbling at her closeness to him. "I'm not taking you there so you can be joined to Sauron." He strained away from her hand, which strayed over his shoulder. "I'm taking you there to destroy you."

"I know that," she said, rolling her eyes slightly. "I simply assumed you knew exactly how powerful I was . . ." She paused, eyeing him very carefully. "You do not doubt yourself, do you? You think you can accomplish this quest. Well, then, if you do not turn back from Mordor I will leave your friends alive. But they cannot come with us."

Frodo opened his mouth, then closed it. "I don't believe you."

Delamarth narrowed her eyes. "Oh, indeed. Then I will prove it to you tonight. You will find Sam nothing but a pile of bleeding tatters scattered all about the campsite." Then she froze. "No . . . no, I'll awaken you and chain you to a tree, then you'll watch me summon orcs and beasts to tear him to pieces. You'll hear his dying screams, Baggins, and never forget them. I will never kill you, will prolong your life for eternity—," She braced his jaw with one hand, keeping his eyes locked on hers. "So you can always remember Samwise's priceless last words splitting the air." She then kissed his cheek, and he scrambled in place. "And my kisses will accompany his strained, helpless little voice; so long as I am by your side the pain will be stark."

If he didn't believe her attempt to help, he certainly believed her words now.

"Actually," she murmured, "that sounds better. Then you'll take me to Mordor in nothing but pain." Fascination slowly overshadowed her desire to hurt him, and she thumbed his soft lips. She studied them, surprised; tingles raced up her arm. Frodo struggled, but she pinned his feet to the ground. He crumpled, suddenly having lost balance, and slammed against the forest floor. Delamarth swallowed hastily; she hadn't intended to let him fall, and she conceded it was his own fault. She quickly knelt by his side. Frodo attempted frantically to roll over, but she clamped down on his shoulder to keep him in place.

"You may be in pain," she continued, "but I think I rather would enjoy kissing you. I've never done it to a soul, you know." She leaned over him, and he shook his head wildly.

Frodo knew jolting wouldn't do any good much longer, and no one was coming for him. Her present words didn't sting or haunt him as much as what she'd said about poor, sweet Sam. "I'll leave them behind!" he cried.

She paused. "What?"

Frodo swallowed as she released him. "I'll come with you if you promise to leave Sam alone."

Delamarth arched an eyebrow, but looked suitably pleased. She nodded assertively. "It's a deal, then." She wrapped her arms around him and sat him up. He couldn't go anywhere, for his arms and legs were still bound. The moment she lifted him to his feet and attempted to kiss him, Boromir came striding into view burdened with sticks. The Ring smiled deviously at Frodo; she brushed her lips against his forehead, and he stiffened as she shifted back into a Ring.

 _Good luck to you, love._

Boromir began somewhat suspiciously in talking to Frodo . . . told him he shouldn't be out alone. Then he started arguing that the Ring could be used for good, and quickly grew aggressive. Frodo turned away from him, certain Delamarth was manipulating Boromir just to prove a point; she wasn't doing it for that reason, but she tugged hard on Boromir, driving his ambition at a deathly rate. She did so, that is, until Boromir attacked Frodo, tackled him and demanded the Ring. Delamarth screeched at Frodo.

 _Put me on your finger! Oh, you cursed hobbit, just do it!_

Frodo scrambled to obey her, certain nothing else would save him or the world's fate from Boromir. The warrior halted when Frodo vanished before his eyes, and received a slap to the face from Frodo before he sprang away frantically.

He could faintly hear Boromir calling after him while he ran away, but he didn't dare go back. He turned around fleetingly, trying to keep his thoughts off of the Ring. But wearing her altered the world, made his vision gray and blurry. He raced up a stone set of stairs that appeared suddenly before him, hoping to escape Boromir.

Delamarth settled against his finger . . . then felt a familiar tingling as Sauron dragged Frodo to Barad-dur, at least in his mind, and they rose up the tower. Sauron eyed her angrily.

"What have I done, master?" she said reverently.

Sauron's eye burned brighter.

 _You want him,_ he hissed. _Traitor._

Delamarth's eyes widened. "No! No, I do not! Sauron, you are my lord and my soul; of course I do not want him!"

 _Traitor!_

 **A huge thank you to all those that have reviewed; they are always loved, I enjoy hearing from you guys! :)**


	14. Quest - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu - Thanks for the wonderful review! Muahahahaa; I'm glad. XP I'll say this, though, that her allure is far more psychological, that I didn't rate this M or T for a reason, but I will scare the heck out of him, get some definite scarring in there . . . dang, now I'm getting all excited! :D I believe you; admittedly I feel a little unusually sinister writing this too.**

Delamarth tried to keep her case going, but the eye of Sauron terrified Frodo, and he stumbled backwards, off of the ruins on which he'd climbed. He tore the Ring from his finger as he fell; he slapped against the ground, and moaned as he stood. He brushed himself off, then collected his wits—he turned to go back to shore. He had to leave as quickly as possible, for not only would Delamarth harm the Fellowship physically, but Boromir's actions proved she was too dangerous. The group would not make it in one piece to Mordor. They'd already lost Gandalf, and Frodo knew he would be faster and more subtle alone. Perhaps he could pull her focus from them; she seemed somehow obsessed with him.

He shivered at the prospect of traveling alone with her, but he had to finish this quest.

Aragorn approached him, and Frodo fearfully tried to run from him. Frodo told him of Boromir . . . then asked him: "Would you destroy it?"

Frodo held out the Ring to Aragorn, and Delamarth resisted gawking. How much did she have to do before Frodo couldn't give her up for the life of him? She decided to pull on Aragorn, irritated by Frodo's resistance to her power.

She wondered if Aragorn could tell that her focus was not on him.

 _You fear power,_ she coaxed, still watching Frodo for his reaction as Aragorn neared her. The hobbit stood his ground even as Aragorn hesitantly reached for the Ring, and decided within himself that he would not run unless Aragorn grew greedy. Perhaps she had not breached the prince yet.

The Ring continued, somewhat distracted by Frodo's intense, beautiful gaze. _You need not fear it. I do not mean to harm, or to offer you empty wishes of power. I am here to tell you that Gondor is yours, that you have a heritage, Aragorn son of Arathorn. You are the rightful king, and I will not encourage you to greed._ Aragorn grew slightly interested at this, but Frodo didn't move. Delamarth hastily asserted that perhaps she ought to change her approach before Aragorn tried to take her. _Woo me, use me, and you will have your kingdom. You will lead a righteous rule, one that perhaps you could spread to all corners of the world. You are a leader that all of Middle Earth deserves. Use me . . ._

Aragorn reached closer, and Delamarth began to grow apprehensive. But he folded Frodo's warm, gentle fingers over her, and she breathed a sigh of relief right along with Frodo: she still had the hobbit for her own. But likely Frodo would tarry too long; she yanked on the army of Uruk-hai nearby, and realized they were only some thousand feet into the forest.

"I would have gone with you to the end," Aragorn said reverently. He obviously respected Frodo, and Delamarth only grew more interested at that. She'd never noticed, but now she recognized that even kings, much less elf enchantresses and great wizards, knew what she did, that Frodo was indeed a special one.

But she smiled darkly: none of them could ever have him like she would. She would have every piece of him for herself, from his huge feet to his blinding eyes, from his obstinacy to his gentility.

She trembled in his grip, and Frodo clenched her harder to keep himself from being too frightened to bear her on his own. "Look after the others," he managed sorrowfully, staring into Aragorn's eyes for what he assumed would be the last time. "Especially Sam; he won't understand." Frodo swallowed; he would miss his gardener, the one friend he had who would sacrifice his all if he could. Butk it would be far less painful for Frodo to let Sam go home safely than to watch him, helpless and perhaps killed by Delamarth.

Aragorn swore to protect them, but then jolted away from Frodo. He stared down at Sting's sheath, and Delamarth grew anticipatory while Frodo followed Aragorn's gaze. Sting glowed a rather lovely shade of blue.

"Orcs," Aragorn hissed. He yanked his own sword from its scabbard, then urgently ushered Frodo to run. When the hobbit stood frozen, Aragorn grew more urgent. "Run!"

The Ring did not fear. She would protect Frodo if necessary, but she gathered she wouldn't have to. She goaded Frodo down to the shore; all was a blur around the hobbit, pain and wistful realization that he was leaving the Fellowship to be killed. But with the Ring's power, the orcs would only be more vicious: if he took her away now, perhaps somehow they would be stilled.

 _Ignore them, love_ , she purred casually as Merry and Pippin presumably sacrificed themselves to the orcs so Frodo could escape. Frodo stared after them longingly, but he would not survive if he went. He prayed that they would all survive, that he might see them again. _It is left only to us now._

Frodo raced down hopelessly to the shore, broken by his loss. He staggered against the rocky sand, staring up at the canoes before him. He opened his hand, and there she sat, pristine and perfectly round, waiting for him to get in one of the ships so that she knew he was hers and hers alone. But he had to catch his breath, allow his mind to catch up to the dynamic of what he had just done, of what lay before him. Tears of overwhelming sorrow flooded his eyes as he stared down at the bank of the river. He considered it all: she would try to break him. Every step would be agony, agony in not knowing what the next day would bring, if the ones he loved were still alive, if he would even succeed . . . if he would succumb. Why hadn't someone more powerful taken charge of her? Why hadn't a woman done it, one the Ring could not get so easily to? Frodo admitted exhaustedly to himself that Delamarth was very beautiful and could be tender when she wished, but that only made it worse. His eyes flickered as he heard his voice in his mind, a lament he made while in the mines of Moria.

 _I wish the Ring had never come to me._ Tears seared down his cheeks. _I wish none of this had happened!_

He snapped his mouth shut and swallowed when another voice joined his own: Gandalf's. _So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All you have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to you._

And regardless of how much time he had, Frodo knew he wanted to help as best he could in the destruction of the Ring.

Frodo's eyebrows narrowed in stone conviction. He swallowed his sorrow back, cleared his tears away, and threw the Ring into his breast pocket. She anxiously felt for his heart: it beat so beautifully with renewed strength, strength that captivated her beyond even the power of Sauron. In that moment she only began to realize how much she wanted Frodo, how right Sauron had been to call her a traitor.

But at least she still had some desire to go home.

Frodo stepped briskly forward and leaped into the nearest canoe, shoving off powerfully. Delamarth trembled excitedly; she could get him lost. She could keep him from Mordor forever, until the day Sauron was strong enough to take over Middle Earth alone, or the men were strong enough to fight him alone, or whatever happened. She didn't care for the fate of the world—if she could get Frodo lost in that maze before the marshes, he would belong to her forever. She could halt his needs, make her his sustenance.

But even as she dreamed up these thoughts, a voice behind her caused her to stiffen. "Frodo, no!" Sam cried out, racing from the shore into the water. "Frodo!"

"No, Sam," Frodo breathed. He couldn't let Delamarth kill him, much as he wished Sam could come with him. He kept rowing, did his best not to look back at his gardener.

But splashes continued behind him, and he glanced back to see Sam marching through the water towards his canoe. Frodo was almost halfway across the lake, and Sam wouldn't be tall enough to get all the way through.

"Go back, Sam!" Frodo called out. "I'm going to Mordor alone." _Almost alone._ Delamarth would be there every step of the way, caressing him in some manner or taunting him with her words. He wished he could take Sam.

"Of course you are!" Sam replied, and the Ring settled, thinking the hobbit had taken logic to heart and would turn back, but he didn't. "And I'm coming with you!"

Frodo grew exasperated, battling with what he knew would be safer and what would make him feel better for the moment. Then a realization halted him as he watched Sam. "You can't swim!"

But the hobbit kept moving.

"Sam!" Frodo insisted, finally turning the canoe. Then Sam slipped under the water's surface, reaching out helplessly for Frodo.

Frodo scrambled to the side of the canoe, eyes wide and heart racing. "Sam!" He hurriedly spun the canoe around, searching frantically for Sam.

 _Leave him, love; he's better off than if I—_

"Of all the confounded nuisances, Delamarth," Frodo exclaimed hurriedly as he scanned the water for Sam, "you are the worst!" He was rarely so irked, but at that moment he knew anything less would not get her to quiet. His heart thudded as he realized he might have already killed Sam . . . until he spotted the struggling hobbit in the water nearby.

Delamarth recoiled from his mind with a solid glare. _Indeed, Baggins._ Then she paused as he reached down into the water and felt around for Sam's hand, finally locking his fingers around Sam's wrist. He breathed a sigh of relief, dragging Sam up into the canoe. Sam sputtered for air, and as Frodo lifted him he grabbed the side of the little craft, leaning to counterbalance Sam's weight as best he could. Delamarth stared down at Sam with disgust at first . . . then up at Frodo.

What if someone so wonderful cared for her that way? Enough that, despite all the threats built up against Sam and Frodo's insistence that he leave, Frodo would still save him, even if it meant taking him all the way to Mordor?

Thus the first pangs of longing began, longing for someone to care for her—love her, she realized—that way.

Frodo stared, bleary-eyed, at his friend as he sat up in the canoe. Water dripped from every inch of him, and he breathed heavily . . . but Frodo knew, despite that, he would not ask Frodo to take him back. Frodo's mind tore in two as he tried hastily to decide if he could afford risking Sam.

"I made a promise, Mr. Frodo," Sam managed. Tingles launched over Frodo, hopeful tingles that he didn't have to face this entirely alone, that he would have one of his best friends beside him. "A promise! Don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee!"

Frodo surveyed his friend, suddenly overwhelmed. Tears welled at his eyes.

"And I don't mean to," Sam finished. "I don't mean to."

Frodo struggled with himself for a moment. "Oh, Sam," he managed. He reached forward, unable to handle it, and crushed his friend close. Sam embraced him back; Frodo didn't mind the water that pressed against his cloak. He gasped for air and squeezed his eyes closed: he absorbed the realization that Sam cared for him, that he would never leave his master.

Delamarth hissed to herself. She had to get rid of this Sam . . . but then she wondered what would happen if she studied him first, learned what made Frodo love him so much. She made a mental note that Sam risked his all for Frodo—again, something she didn't understand, but she argued with herself until she conceded to attain that trait for herself.

Frodo and Sam rowed the rest of the way over the lake and clambered to the top of a small wooded rise that Delamarth led them to from within Frodo's pocket. They soon overlooked a huge labyrinth of rock

Mount Doom rumbled in the distance. Delamarth did not react very quickly, trying to decide if she was excited or fearful. She did not want Sauron anymore, or so it felt—but she had to prove to him that she could be strong. Conflict wracked her brain, and she trembled.

Frodo admitted to Sam his fears that they might never see the Fellowship again, staring into the distance at the volcano, so menacing and yet so far out of reach.

Sam smiled at him gently. "We may yet, Mr. Frodo; we may."

Delamarth marked that as well, for Frodo smiled sweetly at Sam's statement. She wanted to trap that smile, wanted so badly to keep it. "Sam," he said. He turned back to his gardener, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I'm glad you're with me."

To attain such a thing . . . Delamarth made it her own quest to make Frodo hers.


	15. Warmth - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: I initially try to keep my writing PG, but I guess this one does-even in my mind-linger towards PG-13. I'll have to look into that; thanks! :) I'm glad you enjoy it. Admittedly that isn't the only reason why, but a very powerful reason of them; I don't read mature content either, so that's part of it as well: I won't write what I don't read.  
Well, it's finished, or at least the writing of it (it'll all be uploaded pretty soon, around the writing of my other current project XD); I think you're right, it would certainly add intensity to the story . . . I know this is going to sound silly, but it's a psychological intensity that I crave to the extent that I fear it. To write it would be to succumb to it. If that makes any sense; I think your advice is very effective, but I'm using other outlets of intensity that I hope you like. :)  
No, but you do know a heck of a lot about this stuff. ;)  
Oh, it'll be interesting; I think RotK is about when it gets REALLY hard for the lot of them.  
*tears down face* Thank you so much! Movie quotes are some of my favorite things in the world! And to quote Frodo: "I'm glad you're with me."**

The Two Towers

OR

An Effort To Claim Him

Frodo suffered often from nightmares. Delamarth did what she could to discourage him from going to Mordor via them: suddenly she felt sick at the thought of going home. Sauron would not be pleased with her, and Frodo's quest would be for naught. The hobbit likely wouldn't survive entering the Black Gate if he ever made it out of the rocks alive, and even if he did succeed, it would mean her death. She'd never felt hopeless in any sense of the word before, but now everything looked so bleak.

Through all of his pain, Frodo wondered at her growing distance. She did not appear to him, and he correctly attributed that to Sam's presence . . . although he didn't know that she was having trouble denying her desire for him.

The hobbits shambled endlessly through the rocks for weeks. Delamarth convinced herself in that amount of time that she could prove Sauron wrong: she began to drag on Frodo's neck, summoning fog to get the hobbits lost. Frodo communicated with her little, too tired to do much. She waited somewhat patiently for a while, but she wanted to talk to him, wanted to touch him. Sure, she was right there by his heart constantly, however with nothing she could do. She didn't know whether to get him to Mordor faster or drag it out—her mood changed at a dizzying rate.

Despite all that, she did know one thing: she wanted Frodo to desire her, at least as much as Isildur and Gollum had, at least as much as Sauron did now. The more stark his need, the better. Whether her intentions were to love him or crush him, she need not know. She also decided to stall his progress to Mordor (which did not take much effort: neither hobbit could figure a way out of the stone), for either she wanted him not to go to Mordor to keep away from Sauron or to torture him further while she worked on conquering him.

But Sam grew to sleep lightly on account of Frodo's nightmares; he woke up every time Frodo so much as groaned weakly, whether from stubbing his toe or absorbing the full terror of night. Delamarth quickly deduced that she would have to conceive some way to keep Frodo awake and Sam asleep. Only if Frodo cried out would it be an issue, so she couldn't press whatever she did too hard. Then she threw that notion off: she could push however hard she wanted. She would scar Sam if he interfered.

One night it rained. She wasn't too excited for that, until she realized that Sam slept through it rather nicely. Frodo wouldn't even close his eyes; the rain beat down on him, chilling him with the reminder that he had such a weight around his neck.

Delamarth caught a movement on top of a nearby ridge, and when she flicked her gaze up to the cliff she spotted Gollum recoil from the edge. Her eyes widened; she almost panicked, but then she calculated calmly how she could use the creature to her advantage—if he could get rid of Sam, or at least separate the hobbits, Delamarth would work on isolating Frodo entirely.

But she couldn't wait on that. She had to convince Frodo to be hers as quickly as possible, Sam or no Sam, Gollum or no Gollum . . . Mordor or no Mordor.

She melted down his chest. Frodo startled from his position, reaching over to shake Sam awake. But Delamarth spotted the movement, and she dragged his hand back over to her. She gripped his other wrist; he struggled to back away from her, then opened his mouth to cry out for Sam.

*She grabbed his jaw and turned him to face her. His eyes widened with terror.

"Wake him up and I slit his throat before he knows what you were waking him up for," she hissed, and Frodo suddenly grew lenient. She grumbled to herself—why couldn't he care for her that much?

Frodo swallowed, and she slowly released his face. She did not, however, release his cuff. He struggled faintly, almost subconsciously. "What do you want?" he muttered fearfully.

Delamarth cocked her head. "To ask you the same question, love." He opened his mouth, confused, but she laid her finger over his mouth. Her eyes rolled back: his lips felt so tender, so gentle, so warm, and as they sealed shut under her touch tingles lit up her skin. Her gaze grew fascinated in a frightening sort of way, and Frodo leaned back. His eyes widened.

She cupped his cheek and stroked his lower lip. He squeezed his eyes shut, yanking his face from her.

"The answer to that question," Frodo managed, "is simply for this quest to be finished."

Delamarth tsked. "I'm certain that's not it," she said slowly, still watching his mouth. He bit his lip self-consciously; she looked strangely predatory. She shook it away and sidled up to him; Frodo moaned under his breath. He couldn't move, for he sat too close to Sam: his friend would awaken and be killed. "You look cold," she mused.

Frodo shook his head frantically. "No, I'm fine. Please, leave me be." Shivers ran through his bare skin, covered with freezing rain, as she crawled around him, slipping into place on the other side of his torso. She did so primarily with the intent of separating him from Sam, but that would only work to an extent.

"Nonsense, love." She threw his entire opinion aside while she distantly studied him. She reached across his chest and grabbed his other hand, stroking the wet flesh. Frodo swallowed. "You're freezing," she said, but an odd level of sincerity accompanied her words. She cocked her head. "I could help you."

That phrase immediately threw Frodo off, and he shook his head again. "I'm sure any way you could help me would not be to my advantage in any way, Delamarth."

She pursed her lips. "Are you sure?"

He nodded emphatically, flicking his gaze away from her.

But she could help. Regardless of how much she tortured him, she wanted him warmer, more comfortable if at all possible. She turned to his hand and focused her energy, breathing gently. Her breath heated his hand, certainly, and he scrambled back . . . but then his blood pulsed slightly with warmth. He stiffened.

"What did you do?"

She shrugged as the warmth wore away. "What I intend to do, only more so." She wrapped her arms around his torso and tugged his hand over her shoulder; she wound the chain trapping his wrist around her fingers. Her neck and shoulders lit up with tingles as she nestled into his side. She warmed her bloodstream, molten gold and lava. It began to heat him immediately.

Delamarth settled her ear against his heart. Frodo shuddered despite the added warmth, and he fidgeted uncomfortably at the way she reveled in being so close to him. His lungs trembled with every swell and fall, shifting against her. He swallowed, unsure where to look. He could not escape her, although he wished with every frightened thud of his heart that he had that chance.

She did not know how else to convince him to stay with her. He kept his legs crossed and his opposite arm as far from her as possible: he would be resistant if she tried anything else, and so she remained content by his side for the remainder of the night. Neither slept; anticipation filled her, and Frodo's eyes refused to close for fear that she would stab him in his sleep.

More nights of similar sort passed, until there were enough rainy nights that soon it became a force of habit for her. Frodo grew to accept it, not fighting on the outside but determined to loathe it. The lack of sleep left him exhausted, but she quickly eliminated that need from him.

Once it stopped raining, she appeared again, and Frodo tiredly accepted her that time. She smiled, wickedly satisfied and reached up to peck his cheek. Frodo shied away, but not too far. Delamarth did not move from her position, leaving her face up close to his.

"You fear me, love," she said tauntingly, "but soon you will think me Precious."

Frodo's eyes narrowed. "I doubt there is anything you can do that will make me think you precious, especially if this is your approach. Someday I know you will push me too far, and I have already counted out how I shall deny you."

She paused. "Perhaps what you think I aim for is not truly what I desire, Baggins."

He flicked his gaze back to her. "I can only imagine where this is going." His heart thundered in his ears, and his face grew hot. He yanked away from her suddenly, and she scrambled in place, finally locking her fingers around the chain on his wrist. He stared at her, accusatory and frightened beyond belief. "You intend to entice me, and I will not have it."

Delamarth gawked at him, and her fingers slackened on his chain. He drew back, burying himself behind a rock. She began laughing . . . and chills scattered up his spine.

"You are absolutely right," she chortled—but Frodo somehow doubted it was sincere. She dragged him out from behind the rock, and he skittered against the stones, resisting her every movement as best he could. "Just not in the way you think." She grabbed his shirt collar, and he twisted this way and that. "I am incapable of physically doing what you believe I would! Frodo, love . . ." She sifted her fingers through his hair. Oh, it was soft, and her fingers ran deeper, faster. "A kiss is all that matters to me as far as what you deem to be my goal; I do not feel as you mortals do. The ensnarement I mean to make you step in to is in your mind." She dragged his face close to hers, and he moaned, trying to break away. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It is one you cannot escape, one you cannot run from . . . one that sneaks up on you and tangles you in desire that you will never be rid of." She realized then that perhaps she was addressing herself: perhaps she was falling into his psychological trap.

Fascination creeped through her, and she glanced down at his hand. He struggled, attempting to back away. She lifted his hand via its shackle to her mouth. She stared at the pale, cold skin, wondering if a kiss truly mattered to her that much. Sauron had not designed her to wish for that above all else, deep down in the direst of her thoughts and emotions, but somehow she did. She wondered if that had been psychologically attained from drained souls, but all mortals she was aware of wanted more.

She brushed her lips against the back of his hand, tenderly at first. Then she pressed hard against it, sucking in a breath. Frodo tried to scramble away, but what she'd told him broke down most of his fears of her physical contact. He found he actually appreciated her touch just a tad, then shivered with that realization.

Delamarth eased away, then glanced up at him.

"Are you warmer, love? Than you were a few weeks ago?"

Frodo stared at her disbelievingly, then nodded.

"Why do it?" he breathed.

She shrugged. "You were cold." She wanted to believe it was to make him fear her, wanted to believe it was for her benefit. But the latter made no sense, and neither did the former, both based on what she'd just told him. "You needed it, and I could do something." A sharp stab entered her heart . . . as though she truly cared about him.

Frodo expected her to demand appreciation from him, to try and kiss him again, but she simply shifted back into her Ring form with a wish of a good night. He stared disbelievingly at the Ring around his neck. She looked confused, but her touch felt completely sincere with no desire to terrify behind it. And now that he knew she had no intentions beyond kissing him as far as physical contact went, he wondered at her arms around his waist, at how she'd expended a slight bit of energy to keep him warm, at how she had not forced him into apparently the peak of her desire despite all these opportunities.

He shook his head; he recalled that she was a temptress, fickle and dangerous. He curled into his cloak—he would be destroying her soon. But now the thought somehow made him a little bit sick.


	16. Trace - Delamarth and Frodo

**Diem Kieu: Hey, one good turn deserves another. XD Well, I understand the curiosity, but that was a rise I broke through, partially because I've been raised to believe that . . . well, that mature content is something I don't want to tamper much with, reading or writing; I guess it's just too important to me. But hey, I'll let you to what you want to do. :)  
I'm glad you think he's attractive too. He makes Sev so happy . . . . X) The eyes, and the curls . . . and the intellect . . . I think I'm a little bit lost . . . O.o!  
Oh, it'll be interesting; I hope it pleases you, it'll get better. :)  
I'm going to use that quote later; One Ring to Rule Them All . . . One Hero to Save Them. O.O! Indeed; hail Frodo! ;)**

Thus things carried on. Uncomfortable conversation sprouted between them, but soon that turned into actual talk. The Ring did not admit she was confused, and neither did Frodo. He began to understand more about her character, and while she already knew everything about him it intrigued her to hear it straight from him.

By day Frodo walked with Sam. Delamarth lightened her yank on Frodo slightly, but he found that attempting to appreciate her as a person only made the weight of killing her heavier.

It impressed her, and in fact pricked her heart a little, when Frodo tried to shield her from Gollum. The creature attacked one night, only to be trapped by Frodo and Sam. Frodo told him to lead them to Mordor, and Delamarth's hopes crashed. He still wanted her dead, and nothing she could do would change that. Although it took a little bit of self-convincing from Frodo, he knew he had to finish this quest. Perhaps his confusion would melt away with her curve of perfect gold.

The Ring's handle on him, sincere as it was, began to harden and chill into the spells originally cast on her, molding into Frodo's mind first as real affection. That was the only way to crack into him, and her subconscious powers recognized it, filtered through Frodo's barriers against temptation with sincerity to start.

Now, her inner soul devised, he would be sucked in. Her powers began to snake into his mind, disguised as protective care for a woman that he traveled with.

Gollum led them to the marshes. Delamarth refused to emerge from her Ring form when Gollum arrived, for fear she would transition and perhaps disgust Frodo. It didn't entirely occur to her that Frodo wasn't so shallow: his attractions were based largely on what was inside. He'd never particularly been interested in girls, and only found the desire to court Sev from befriending her long before.

So his interest in Delamarth bothered him greatly: he knew all of her wickedness, all of her greed . . . or so he assumed. One simple transition from her typical aggression shouldn't have been enough to change him, but it offered him hope that this traveling companion would somehow be able to turn from her initial, dark persona into a real person . . . a real woman he could find it within his heart to love.

While in the marshes, Frodo only grew darker and more confused, more distanced from Sam than usual. Delamarth accounted it to the weight of Sauron's influence, but she wondered deep down if it had anything to do with her. She admitted that since the rainless night Frodo had been a little off.

He wondered what he would do when he lost her, when he gave her up for the better of the entire world. Then his perplexion grew: she shouldn't matter to him. She should do the opposite. She had never done anything but harm and threaten him . . . save that one night, when she asked about his well-being and sounded honest about it. More nights followed, nights when the Ring's power pressed Frodo's mind into a bit of a mush. He found himself now beginning to touch her just a little, at first aggressively to keep her back. But he softened soon, and Delamarth grew almost to believe that perhaps Frodo might care about her someday. It was small, however; he managed to keep himself from more than squeezing her hand or patting her shoulder.

Frodo shook his head as he stumbled through the marsh. He couldn't think about this now. She still dragged on his neck, but not as heavily as before. She still didn't know entirely what to think. She began to lean one way, but then flipped around and decided upon the other. The dragging was a result of her desires conflicting: one wished to root him in place and kiss him until she couldn't breathe or feel, and the other wished to burden him with everything she had.

Neither ended up winning out.

Frodo's sudden lack of conscious control came to a peak in the marshes when Sam pointed out dead faces in the water. Gollum warned them, told them that there had been a war here, and that to fall in would be to join the corpses.

But something about the pale, peacefully unrested creatures intrigued Frodo . . . in an insanely twisted sort of way. He tried to rationalize with himself, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the faces down there. Some feeling had been creeping into him for a while, a feeling settled with the darkness and the darkness alone. Everything in his initial nature pulled back on him, but everything natural was gone from his gaze in that moment.

Delamarth yanked back on him, then stilled. Did she want him to drown? No, of course she didn't—but if he drowned, she would be found by the Nazgul any minute. Did she want to go back to Sauron? No . . . yes? She found herself lost in that moment as well, unable to halt Frodo's swaying on his own legs.

Sam glanced up, having realized that he no longer heard Frodo plashing in the swamp behind him. He turned, stared horrified as Frodo lingered on the shore. His master stared—blankly interested—at the water before him.

"Frodo!" Sam cried. Gollum leaped around the hobbit, racing for Frodo.

The elf that particularly caught Frodo's attention opened his eyes suddenly, staring up at the hobbit with a pale, sinister gaze. Frodo lost his strength suddenly and crashed headfirst into the murky, warm water.

Delamarth attempted to shift, to drag Frodo out of the water, but in this this murk she couldn't move. Dark spirits swarmed the hobbit, shrieking and reaching for him. She hissed loudly at them, almost to the extent that Frodo could hear it. But she couldn't hold them off much longer. She started calling to the Ringwraiths, then stopped herself: did she truly want to leave him to drown, become another cursed corpse in the marshes beside her own home?

Frodo struggled against the water, but he could hardly move. The demons surrounding him began to stifle his breathing, easily trapped him tightly around the lungs and squeezed harder than Delamarth ever had. He began to succumb . . . until a powerful hand wrapped around the shoulder of his cloak and dragged him up right out of the water. He sputtered and gasped when the demons released him, straining for air and dripping from head to foot.

It shocked both Delamarth and Frodo to see his rescuer.

"Gollum?" Frodo voiced disbelievingly. Sam was nowhere in sight.

Gollum bent down close. "Don't follow the lights," he hissed before turning away. Sam raced to Frodo's side to bring him to his feet, but Frodo continued to stare after Gollum. He remembered Gandalf telling him that Gollum had a history of sorts, that his life was a tragic one after having stumbled across the Ring. Delamarth, Frodo realized; the girl he thought he'd begun to want, the destroyer of the world that would bind all in the darkness—including Frodo. He jolted back to reality: she couldn't care about him. He was just one more creature to her, and probably not even that. Her voice, her words from Rivendell, echoed in his ears: "You're just a halfling."

Sam brought a stunned Frodo to his feet, asked him if he was all right. Frodo could only hear Sam in the back of his mind as he stared back at Gollum, and only responded in a mumble of sorts. Fortunately that seemed enough for Sam; the gardener carried on, flicking his gaze periodically back to Frodo as they walked.

Frodo studied Gollum just a bit while they continued through the marshes. Perhaps the creature did really have a heart deep down . . . and perhaps Delamarth did as well. Both had tried to harm him, but with both of them attempting to help, he wondered if either could or would ever truly change.

Frodo waited for Delamarth to appear that night, but she didn't. Gollum was still awake. Frodo did not sleep, believing she might not come. He grew fidgety, finally removing the Ring from within his shirt. Delamarth conceded to melt into place, facing Frodo while lying on her side.

* _You refuse to sleep, love. What is it?_

Frodo bit his lip. He dared not speak, for Delamarth silenced his subconscious. He didn't know why he did not say anything, but he didn't feel the need to understand his own silence just yet. He edged toward her, reverently cupped one side of her face in his hand. He inhaled shakily; his processes numbed at her nearby power. He drew her closer, traced his fingers along her jaw. His eyes flickered open and shut, not entirely sure what he was doing, but not caring either.

Delamarth blinked away her ecstatic shock and locked her fingers around the back of his neck. It unsettled her for a moment that he did not look loving, but possessive alone . . . like the others had. She threw the thought away, convinced herself that this was progress. She stretched out her powers to his mind, rubbed them against the inside of his mind. His gaze sank even more, his eyes almost closed. Tingles traveled through her like they had when she kissed his hand the first time, and she pecked his nose slowly.

 _I am your Precious, love._ She brushed her cheek against his, taking in all that was Frodo, all that part of her wished to destroy and all that part of her wanted to love more than anything. _Your Precious._ And she meant it this time, at least to some extent. She pulled back to look at him, stare intently into those icy blue eyes of his.

Her sincerity ignited a flame in Frodo, deep within his chest, surreal and uncomfortably false as the feeling was. He leaned forward when she did, and her heart raced. It struck her as odd, for she had never had such a disarming feeling before. His lips eased within an inch of hers—

"So beautiful, so bright," Gollum whispered. Frodo jolted back suddenly, and Delamarth transitioned again into a Ring. Frodo slipped her into his shirt, then sat up to watch Gollum. "My Precious . . ." the creature continued, stroking an imaginary Ring in his palm. He faced away from Frodo.

Frodo's consciousness suddenly cut into him as he watched Gollum, watched the creature that had also been obsessed with the Ring a long time ago and continued to be haunted by her. "What did you say?" Frodo whispered. He almost couldn't comprehend that he would become like Gollum if he kept succumbing to her, as though wanting her felt right.

"Master must rest," Gollum said mockingly. He sounded like Delamarth, just for the way he spoke. "Master needs to keep up his strength."

Frodo narrowed his eyes and stood, approaching Gollum from behind. "Who are you?"

Gollum didn't even look at him. "Mustn't ask us; not its business."

Frodo knelt down behind the creature. "Gandalf told me you were one of the River Folk." Gollum ignored him, reciting a poem to himself absentmindedly. Frodo circled the creature, trying to catch his eye. "He said your life was a sad story!"

Gollum hissed the remainder of his poem, staring at the ground.

"You weren't so different from a hobbit once, were you?" Frodo's voice softened, and Gollum finally lifted his eyes from the ground. Frodo could see a trace of a real person in those eyes, of a man once not unlike himself who fell to the same struggle but refused to fight it. Frodo leaned close to him. "Smeagol."

Gollum's reaction assured Frodo that Gandalf was right. His eyes doubled, and he stared up at Frodo. "What did you call me?" he whispered.

"That was your name once," Frodo persisted. "A long time ago."

Gollum's expression lit up. Delamarth watched wonderingly, amazed at the connection Frodo had made with such a loathsome creature. She felt a slight pang of possessiveness: she was Gollum's only "friend," and soon Frodo's. If they formed a bond without her, it would certainly cause her to lose both. Her doom would be sealed only sooner.

Gollum began to smile. "My name," he whispered reverently. "My name! Smeagol . . ."

Delamarth's heart thudded cautiously. She would have to set them against each other, but she didn't quite know how to do it. They were close enough to the Black Gate, but she didn't think she could do it before then. She would have to appear to Gollum and convince him to betray Frodo; then she could betray Smeagol. Maybe he could get Sam away . . .

She felt a slight aching in her curve, as though Mordor was insanely close. Then she realized she felt the throbbing of a Nazgul. She reached out instinctively, yanking on the Nazgul.

The Ringwraith's shriek split the air moments later, and Gollum cried out. Sam scrambled, awakened, to a sitting position. Gollum leaped away for a nearby bush.

Delamarth had a sudden, rash realization: if the Nazgul took Frodo, he would be separated from Sam as well as Gollum—and she could force Sauron to let Frodo live. If she conquered Middle Earth for the Dark Lord, nothing would stand between her and Frodo.

"Black Riders!" Sam shouted. He turned to pursue Gollum, and Frodo moved to follow . . . but the Ring saw an outlet to keep him, and she yanked back hard, stinging and burning against his chest. Frodo collapsed with a strained moan to the ground, clutching her. He strained against her, needing to move on. His Morgul stab snapped suddenly with cold, and he gasped with the sudden pain. He lay trapped in his agony.

Delamarth searched the skies. A Nazgul on a dragon searched the marshes, and she dragged on him. But then Sam reached out from behind the bush where he and Gollum situated themselves, hurriedly assisting Frodo to cover. Then the Ring realized how silly her impulse had been: the Nazgul would kill Frodo before they even got back to Mordor. She released the Rider suddenly; she didn't want to go back to Mordor in that moment, and refused to change her mind despite the fickle nature of her preference ever since she thought she liked Frodo.

Frodo lay gasping for breath when the sting of the stab faded away. He clutched Delamarth again; the Nazgul began calling out to her, but she didn't want them: she wanted Frodo. And in some twisted, dark sort of way, he wanted her too. She didn't care how he accepted her as long as he did it.

Anger bubbled within her when Sam grabbed Frodo's hand away from her, holding it tightly in both of his own. The Ring did her best to keep Frodo's mind numb, and it certainly worked. Frodo stared blankly up into the air, tucked into himself for fear the pain would return, and for fear that he indeed wanted to maintain the Ring.

Not soon enough, but after a few minutes, the Nazgul turned and flew away. Delamarth released Frodo, who dizzily attempted to get up. Sam helped him first to his knees and then to his feet before Smeagol hissed again.

"Hurry, hobbitses," he said. "The Black Gate is very close."

They couldn't go through the Black Gate. It was too soon. Delamarth began trying to work up excuses in her mind, reasons to get them away from it. She could summon orc armies to the front, drive Frodo away from Mordor by force, or she could convince him to turn back.

 _Frodo, love._

Frodo paused as he walked, but then continued on with decent force. He still walked at the back of the group some feet away, but the Ring wished he'd given up a long time before.

 _Yes, Delamarth?_

She tsked, rubbing slowly on his shoulders in his mind. Frodo staggered, but kept moving. _My love, I'm your Precious. Don't forget that._ Then she paused. _As much as I wish to return to my master, somehow I doubt you will survive past the Black Gate, and I will fall dormant just outside, buried in rock, with no one to take me in. I don't think going to Mordor is the smartest thing you could do for the moment._

Frodo halted.

She tried to continue, but he shoved his way in.

 _One could not put it past you to try and deter me from my quest,_ Frodo said patiently, _but I hope you are aware that you can say what you will; I know the risks. I've known I could die any day. But the circumstances remain the same: the world is in danger, and I can save it. This is the only way._ He hesitated, realizing that she would melt away into nothingness. His eyes squeezed closed, as though he could hear her final screams on the air.

Delamarth assumed a pitiful tone. _No, it isn't,_ she said gently. _You don't have to destroy me, Frodo. Don't I mean something to you?_

Frodo waited, then shook his head wildly. He had to shake these growing feelings for her if he ever wished the Shire and all those that he loved to be safe. "No," he hissed. "No, you don't."

Had she been in human form, she would have frozen in place. He didn't care for her? Didn't even believe he did? After all she'd done for him, after all she thought of him, after all the threats she issued, he still wished to have her destroyed.

 _Suit yourself, Baggins,_ she growled. Her voice took him aback, and he stumbled again. _You will not go through that Gate, or so help me, I will break Sam's neck._

Frodo's eyes narrowed. _You'll have to break mine first._

He didn't speak to her after that. Much as Delamarth wished she were livid with him, but his desire to sacrifice for everyone else, much less for his best friend walking just ahead of him, amazed her again and again. She didn't understand what sort of person had that conviction for something that wouldn't do the most benefit for them.

As they neared the Black Gate, she crept into Smeagol's mind. She didn't speak directly to him for fear he would turn around and attack Frodo.

 _Smeagol. The Precious is not safe going to Mordor._

Smeagol began muttering to himself. Delamarth could only hope he was listening, going along with her. She knew he was bitter with a great deal of things, loved and loathed her much as he did himself. She pressed a little bit harder.

 _The Black Gate is close; save the Precious_ , she hissed. _Keep Master from going into Mordor._

Smeagol shook his head wildly.

 _There are orcses,_ she whispered. _Many orcses, and they will rip the Precious away!_ Smeagol shifted, stiffening and stumbling. _The Precious! We must has it!_ Delamarth persisted. _They will take it to him, to the Great Eye! The Great Eye will keep the Precious!_ She aroused panic in Smeagol's mind, then softened her voice. _She is beautiful, Precious. She loved us._

Smeagol's shoulders stiffened and locked with conviction, and Delamarth knew she had him. She settled, satisfied, against Frodo's chest and allowed Smeagol to continue convincing himself that the Black Gate was not safe.


	17. His Tears - Delamarth and Faramir

**Diem Kieu: That was one of my favorite scenes to write, actually, one of the first I considered doing fanart for. But Mount Doom is so much better . . . aaaanyway, not getting into that yet. XD  
Four years! But alas . . . I have not been so fortunate. :D My obsessions are very . . . not fickle, but they fluctuate. I hope I don't move on soon; I have eight more ideas for Frodo romances that I haven't started writing yet. But seeing as I've finished writing three, I think I can make it.  
I will; thanks so much for the support! Sometimes I upload just because I enjoy your reviews. X) They make me smile. Yeah! I wants to read it! I await the upload . . .**

When they climbed up the stone hill overlooking the Black Gate, Delamarth shoved harder on Smeagol. He began whimpering, locking into himself. She probed him, learned that he was battling with his loyalty to his Master and his desire for the Ring.

She pressed to him that there was another way into Mordor. The stairs of Cirith Ungol: if she didn't get rid of Sam and Gollum before then, the spider's cave would be a prime place. She communicated to Smeagol that perhaps he could steal the Precious back if they went to Cirith Ungol, and Smeagol's eyes began to grow hard. Satisfied, the Ring released him: they wouldn't go in the Black Gate now, for Smeagol was too stirred.

At first the Gate was not open, and Delamarth hoped it would stay that way. But an army of Mordor marched to the entrance, and after the blow of a loud horn, the Gate began to creak open. Delamarth dragged back on Frodo, but he ignored her.

Sam ended up peering too far over the hill's edge and tumbled down the side in an avalanche of rock. Frodo raced after him; both Delamarth and Smeagol began screaming at him, insisted that Sam wasn't worth risking Frodo. But the hobbit ignored them both, sliding down the rocks. Delamarth didn't stop frantically scrambling until after Frodo shielded Sam and himself with his cloak, but then she inhaled and stuck there. She felt Elvish magic drifting through the canopy of fabric far above her, and only hoped it would conceal Frodo as four armor-shod feet approached the hobbits.

She tensed and cooled against Frodo's skin, and he shuddered slightly. The Ring tried to fight the soldiers back, but the Elvish magic blocked her influence somewhat. She realized before her power stretched too far that they would sense her presence and take her back to Sauron; she recoiled, lingering in place, already calculating a plan for how to get Frodo away if they captured him. She waited a breathless moment . . . and then the soldiers turned nonchalantly from the hobbits.

Delamarth stood frozen.

 _A genius move, love_ , she said slowly.

Frodo didn't reply, still frozen with fear. His heart let its last thuds of strained anxiety flow away, and then he whipped the cloak off of himself and Sam. The Elvish magic dissipated into the air, and Delamarth found she could breathe easier.

She had to get rid of that cloak.

But before she could focus on that, Frodo dragged Sam out of the pile of stone and yanked him towards the Black Gate. Delamarth growled to herself, then calmed: the orcs could help if necessary. She didn't like the idea of them touching him . . . then realized she could take Frodo to Barad-dur as a woman, then hide him until she finished assisting Sauron.

"I don't ask you to come with me, Sam," Frodo asserted, staring at the terrifying gate. They were sure to be seen, the fact of which Sam confirmed. Frodo inhaled, then exhaled on a single word. "Now!" He and Sam sprang to their feet, and Delamarth's heart thudded. But Frodo and Sam stumbled back. Delamarth wondered what miracle kept her away from Sauron, until Smeagol spoke and she remembered.

"Don't take her!" Smeagol pleaded shrilly. "Sauron wants the Precious . . ." He crawled to the face of the rock, staring into Mordor. "He will see! And the Precious wants to go back to him!" he added. Then his eyes narrowed, and Delamarth shivered pleasurably at his sudden protectivenss of her. "But we mustn't let her."

The last of Mordor's army marched through the Black Gate, and despite Smeagol's protest Frodo leaped up again, knowing the gate would close soon. Smeagol hastily grabbed Frodo's cloak, partially at the Ring's yank on Smeagol.

"No, don't!" Smeagol wailed. Frodo turned to protest, but Delamarth quickly reminded Smeagol of her excuse. "There is another way! A dark way!" Smeagol insisted.

Frodo breathed heavily. The horn had been blown, the signal for the gate to be closed. He was running out of time. Then he paused, staring at Smeagol. "Are you saying there's another way into Mordor?"

By some miracle, Smeagol convinced Frodo and Sam to follow him to the stairs above Cirith Ungol. Delamarth realized, however, that Sam's skepticism of Smeagol's proposal and Frodo's trust of the creature bore both good and bad news: Sam would be easier to get rid of if events slowly undermined his morale and loyalty, but Frodo was developing a deeper connection with Smeagol. Delamarth had to snap it, but she didn't quite know how.

As Frodo ascended the rise he had come down to rescue Sam, she stared back at the Black Gate, breathing deeply when it closed her off from Sauron. Despite that assurance, his hiss pierced her ears, and she trembled angrily.

 _You cannot hide, traitor. You will be mine again._

 _I was never yours. I ruled you . . . and I will rule whom I chose, Sauron._

 _But I made you._ Sauron glared deep into the fibers of her being. _And I have control over you that even you cannot fight._

Somehow not himself, Frodo acted aggressive towards Sam once. It shocked Delamarth when Frodo defended his possession of the Ring against Sam, telling him that she (as a burden, unfortunately) was his, his own. He walked off . . . and really wasn't of his own mind the rest of the day. His voice sounded different as well. He didn't even speak to Delamarth, confused at his own actions and hurt by his own thought processes.

A pang stabbed her. She couldn't abide seeing him like this, broken and dark. She thought she would love to see him twisted, shattered, but she really didn't want it, not now that she'd seen what he could be like when he had the capacity to love, to forgive, to be bright. He treated her well when he was himself, once he got over his initial fear of her. She found herself wishing that she could be what he needed, a creature he wanted in spite of her ability to ensnare him if she so desired it.

She wanted him to love her.

*Later that night, as Sam slept, Frodo kept her enclosed in his hand. She melted into his grip, spreading across the ground beside his cloak. "Frodo," she whispered, tracing her finger down his jaw.

Frodo tossed, then awakened with a slight moan. His eyes flickered open, and they lit up when they saw her . . . but it was not a pleasant light. He looked hurt, confused . . . possessive.

"Delamarth," he said, trying to be polite despite his sudden urge to grab her fiercely and hold her close. He shook the thought away. It was only her as a Ring that drew him in, only her innate ability to persuade and destroy.

Or perhaps her as a person?

She tsked and brushed her fingers through his hair. "You were so open and sweet just a few days ago. What happened?"

Frodo's eyes narrowed, then settled tiredly. He didn't even bother to dodge her touch; it now required too much effort. "I don't understand, Delamarth," he admitted, flicking his gaze away from her. He sat up after a moment, and Delamarth braced his back with a hand to help him stay up. He almost initially thanked her, then threw that away. "I do not know what to think of you, for my desires fight every last fiber of my being." He sighed, staring into the distance. "It is rather wearying."

Delamarth was careful not to make her sidling obvious. "Well, what are your desires, love?"

"They are not human," Frodo interjected before that gnawing voice in his mind could explain. He stared down at her almost coldly; speaking them coherently, outside of the blurry confusion of his mind, Frodo knew the things he wanted were false. "I think you initiate them with whatever sorcery you've been made with, and I will not pursue it."

She bit her lip, staring at his hands crossed over his knees. She wanted those fingers; she needed them. "You still have not answered my question, love." She admittedly just wanted him to keep talking—leaning this close to him, his voice resonated through his shoulder. Not only could she hear him, she could feel him when he spoke.

Frodo relaxed, lowering his gaze. "I suppose not. But I do not feel I should, for you would only use that knowledge to your advantage."

Delamarth pursed her lips, deep in thought. She had a few options: she could keep going in her pursuit, and that could possibly cause some stir in him, or she could try and get back to Sauron before he lived up to his threat at the Black Gate . . .which she still didn't entirely understand. Or she could break Frodo as she had always intended.

Somehow those last two options were not very appealing for how logical they sounded.

She swallowed, still eyeing his hands. He followed her gaze and folded his arms rather self-consciously. "My advantage? What do you take me for, Frodo?" Her head cocked slowly, staring at his torso where his hands had disappeared to. Why did they seem to entrap her? Perhaps, she decided, because she was a Ring and was meant for the hand. But she'd never even wanted Sauron's hand this much.

"I take you for what I've always told you that you are," Frodo said, his voice escalating slightly as he watched her golden eyes. He shifted away from her, but could only go so far: she'd wrapped her chain around her torso, keeping him close. "And I have no desire to be ripped apart by you. You are using some form of trickery that I don't understand to make me want you for myself—," Then he stopped abruptly. He hadn't meant for that to come out.

Delamarth's gaze sharpened, and she looked up. Frodo scrambled back, and she methodically followed. "You what?"

Frodo shook his head wildly, then stood and held out his hands as though to keep her on the ground. "No, please . . . I didn't—I didn't mean it. It is your doing, not mine."

She stood as well, but did not follow when he backed a pace away. She didn't quite know what to think. Had she been like she was just a half a year ago, she might have tried to suck him in. But now he looked so afraid, so desperate, and this was not what she wanted.

Delamarth sank to her knees on the ground. "I won't rip you apart," she said softly, letting her decision set itself in her mind. "I'm sorry for what I've done." She bit her lip, glancing at the ground. Frodo stared at her, frozen, wondering what kind of strategy she was letting simmer in her mind. Whatever it was, it worked. She glanced up at him again, feeling a sting in the back of her eyes. She blinked it away; she did not recognize it, had never felt it before. "I am. I'm sorry." She crunched back into her Ring form, so confused and torn.

"Delamarth!" Frodo reached for her condensing form, but she clattered against his neck before he could do more. He sighed heavily and slapped down against the ground. He shivered, unable to sleep. He almost wished she would come back. That glimmer in her eyes looked like tears; he'd never seen her so distraught before.

Frodo slipped the Ring out of his shirt, into his palm. He fell asleep with her clutched in his hand—she only troubled him with every move she made.

It took a great deal out of Frodo, the next few days, as they were captured by warriors of Gondor. He learned of Faramir, the brother of Boromir, and learned that Boromir was dead. Delamarth couldn't have cared less about the warrior, but that glimmer of despair in Frodo's gaze sickened her greatly.

Then she realized, with a jerk of her instinct as a creature of the darkness, that perhaps Faramir would be as gullible as Boromir. She began tugging on him, although Frodo did not reveal his quest to the warrior, so it didn't come out with the results she wished for.

Her own heartlessness surprised her over those days that they were in Faramir's company, particularly when Smeagol was captured and tortured by the men. She heard his screams endlessly following the experience, felt Frodo shudder uncontrollably but not visibly. She wondered at the tremors of his heart, at how he had grown to care for Smeagol. Her spirits brightened when she realized that this was to her advantage. Livid excitement bubbled in her very core: Smeagol would betray Frodo at last, if she could inspire enough hatred within him.

They were already going towards Cirith Ungol, anyway. That would at least get rid of Sam.

Delamarth did not pay much attention to what was going on around her until she heard Sam referring to her. She perked up.

"Use the Ring, Mr. Frodo!" She hoped she would feel a thrill of excitement in Frodo, but she received nothing more than a hurt shiver as he stared up at Sam skeptically. Sam crept closer to him. "Disappear; you can escape! Just put it on this once."

Sam was beginning to appeal to her. _Come, Frodo,_ she whispered. _Escape, please!_

Maybe they could get out without Smeagol or Sam. She could take him back to the Shire, escape Sauron herself with Frodo nigh intact.

Frodo slackened against the stone. "I can't."

 _Forget the quest,_ she hissed. _Frodo, get us out of here! Get back to the Shire!_

Of course, she should have assumed his chivalry would be an obstacle. While he did not mention his need to complete his quest, it did suddenly occur to her as he spoke.

"If I put it on . . ." Frodo managed, staring into the distance, "he will find me. He will see." He glanced forlornly at his friend. "You were right. The Ring has taken me, Sam."

Delamarth hesitated, letting her words fall away. Frodo sounded so . . . broken. She'd done it. She'd snapped Frodo for good; he would never recover from her influence. But then why did that make her feel so sick? What about that could possibly cause her stomach to flip uncomfortably, as though the realization that she could not undo what she'd done was a horrid thing?

She slipped out of Frodo's shirt with the intent to morph and apologize again, tell him she hadn't meant it, that if he gave her to Sam the gardener could take her to Mordor and she would go willingly—but then Faramir stepped in.

Frodo stood abruptly and backed against the wall. Faramir had his sword raised and his stare hanging greedily on Frodo.

"So," he said, his breath shaky, "this is the answer to all the riddles." He stepped forward slowly, and the Ring initially pulled on him. His desires melted like snow at her touch, but then she tried to shy back. He would kill Frodo if she pulled anymore, but she could not take back the impact she'd already laid on him. She scrambled helplessly against Frodo's chest as Faramir lifted his sword. The tip brought her away from Frodo's skin, lingered against the hobbit's heart as though ready to pierce it.

She turned her attention on Frodo, begging him to save himself, to save her. But her pleas only made themselves manifest as dark whispers of an evil lord, stinging Frodo's head uncontrollably. His eyes sank closed, fighting his desire to have the Ring. But he could not do it for long; horrid voices whispered to him of what Faramir would do. He would rip her from Frodo's neck, would possess her for himself.

Finally Frodo had it. His eyes snapped open dangerously. "No!" He clenched his fingers around the Ring and ducked away from Faramir. His breath heaved possessively; his fingers tightened and loosened around her, trying to calm himself by her presence in his touch. She tried to revive him to the best of her ability, but it wasn't helpful in any way. She finally shifted, slipped into the crevice behind Frodo, and yanked Frodo up with her. His eyes had grown empty like Smeagol's, and she shivered. Then she shook it away.

*"Frodo!" she hissed. Frodo's eyes bulged, and he studied her disbelievingly, knocked away from his consciousness. It hurt her horribly to see him like this; she shook her head, biting back the wish to crush him to her. She only resisted that for a moment before squeezing him in her arms. He squirmed against her, fighting, trying to reach back and hold her for his own. She trapped his arms easily.

"Frodo, my love, calm down, please!" she cried softly. She buried her fingers in his curls. His pulse slowed under her touch. "Don't let the darkness get to you. I don't want you to change; I only ever wanted to have you!" She swallowed, a little afraid of her own admittance. But assuring herself that it was true helped just a little.

Frodo stared up with uncertainty, trembling uncontrollably until he slowed. He only had a moment to feel somewhat comforted before confused skepticism set in, and then a pair of rough hands yanked him out of the cave. Delamarth sucked back into a Ring before he was completely taken away, but it did startle the guard for a moment.

She almost shifted into a woman to fight them off . . . until she realized they were dragging Frodo towards Osgiliath. They were not going to Mordor. She'd influenced Faramir enough that he was trying to take her back to his father, or so she gathered.

Delamarth felt rather optimistic about the situation until the moment they came into view of Osgiliath. Frodo stared down at the city hopelessly; his pulse slowed with dread, and Delamarth started to worry just a little. She peered up only to see tears, glassy and tragically beautiful gathering in Frodo's eyes. She might have been excited, knowing he was in so much pain, but it hurt her as well. She whimpered, then shook her head emphatically; the Ring did not simply whimper.

But something about him cut off her need to be a warrior.

And if that part of him failed so would she.

"The Ring will not save Gondor," Frodo said, his eyes swelling with tears. He turned back desperately to Faramir; he wished the warrior would only believe him when he said that Delamarth had nothing like good intentions within her. "It only has the power to destroy. Please! Let me go."

Delamarth blocked her ears to Frodo's cries when Faramir refused to release him. She couldn't abide them; she needed to stop them.


	18. You Can Never Go Home - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: Yay angst and torture! *happy/sad/upset-and-wicked-chuckle sob* Oh, you ain't a kiddin' . . . Delamarth's not going anywhere. Psychologically speaking; alas, physically she can't quit moving. XD But I don't blame her at all. -cough-hence tragedy genre-cough  
*flourishing bow* And thank you for your wonderful input! Makes Sev a happy-sadistic author.  
:D Just so much material to be obsessed with . . . and Frodo is the most AMAZING protagonist in the world. Three years! I don't know if any of my obsessions have lasted that long-and, well, LOTR is lasting plenty long. :) I hope it keeps going; it feels great!  
The seniors in my "nerd" class (that's what everybody calls it; it's the ACT on steroids + international competition for seven hours a weekend) were not pleased that my parents had never seen Lord of the Rings, so they convinced my parents, my older sister, and me to come watch it on two separate days. They said we weren't strong enough for a marathon, and boy, were they right. That was emotionally exhausting! But worth it. And I went and read the books in three days (I read, that's just what I do), freaked out about the Grey Havens, because I don't like goodbyes and I especially don't like how Frodo's life ended up-ja. And here I am . . . writing romances. XD  
Sorry; done ranting. On to the angst!**

The Nazgul came for her. Frodo could feel them . . . and under her subconscious power he answered to their call. Delamarth resisted, tried to transform and drag Frodo away from there, only for a hissing, high frequency to pierce her ears. Delamarth trembled as a voice crackled like static through the sound, and she fell hypnotized to it.

 _Come to me, my Precious. Come back to me; I rule you._

Frodo could not resist either. He felt drawn to the Ringwraith, stepping methodically and monotonously through the raging war between orcs and men. Sam cried out to him, but Frodo's ears were numb; he could not hear, nor would he care to. He stepped slowly onto a high stone balcony, and the Nazgul's dragon met him there, anticipatorily eyeing the Ring. Frodo and Delamarth attempted to protest as he lifted her into the air as far as the chain would stretch. The Nazgul reached down . . .

And Frodo fell away to Sam's grasp. The two hobbits rolled down the hill, and Delamarth's initial blackness caused her to scream with rage. She drove Frodo's furiosity; he yanked Sting from its sheath, throwing Sam from on top of him. He leaped over his friend and cried out with angered pain. He held the tip of the sword to Sam's throat, nearly running him through.

Sam stared up at his master, shocked and horrified. "It's your Sam," he managed. Delamarth began to regain consciousness when she heard Sam's voice, and she slowly relaxed her livid influence from over Frodo. "Don't you know your Sam?"

Soon Frodo's gaze widened with horror at the realization of what he had just about done. He fell away from Sam, and Sting clattered away from him on the stony ground.

"I'm so sorry," he breathed. "I can't do this, Sam."

As Sam did his best to reassure his hopeless friend, Delamarth grew sorrowful and hard. She had to fight herself, had to fight her very nature to be there for Frodo. She never wanted to see him like this again . . . but what if he couldn't recover from her influence?

Faramir led Frodo and Sam out of Osgiliath, and as he did so Delamarth turned on herself with sorrow as she had never done before. She felt like she'd ruined Frodo. She didn't regret anything she had done to Isildur, Smeagol, Sauron, or Bilbo, strangely enough. But hurting this bright little hobbit had turned her world around. She felt like a monster, like she didn't deserve to be anymore. Resignation trickled inside of her; perhaps if Frodo destroyed her he would no longer be in such pain.

As they moved forward towards Mordor, Delamarth lightened her load on his neck, almost purely out of guilt she had never felt before. Frodo actaully laughed that day as he spoke with Sam, something he had never done in front of her. She grinned to herself. Perhaps he could be healed, and perhaps she could be with him in circumstances of such.

But regardless of how it ended, any effort would be worth it if Frodo ever learned to care for her.


	19. Live, Please! - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: Sorry, I was going to warn you at the end of that chapter . . . :P Not much in it. I didn't realize it was that short, though. XP  
Not senior year; I just went with the seniors, because they're nice to me. :) And I meant three years in reference to your Inu Yasha obsession. XP I think I was having communication issues that day. :D  
Yes! It's amazing how many analogies there are in those stories. And there you have it; the stories are fantastic. :D I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one is my favorite, I think.**

The War of the Ring

OR

One Love to Break Them

Frodo grew distant from her, and she couldn't abide it. He felt much better, letting his concerns fall away from the burden around his neck. She had nothing more to try than to attempt attracting him again.

But, as she worried would happen, Frodo again began to eye her possessively, as though she were nothing more than a trinket. She didn't know how to convince him otherwise to care for her. She hoped there was another way to appeal to him, a way to make him want her in a real sense. So he'd admitted he liked her, wanted her, but she thought it was only her powers.

Couldn't it be something about _her_?

Frodo thought he truly felt something for Delamarth, but it was difficult to see beyond the clouding of her powers in his mind. He felt guilty every time he pulled her out of his shirt to stroke her, to look at her. He wished she would appear as a woman to him, but that wasn't a part of what he initially felt from her influence over him. That felt more natural, as though he cared about her. But he constantly dismissed it as fake, knowing that a creature incapable of feeling more than malice could stir something within his actual mind. He felt like falsehood and truth had been meshed together in his mind, and he could no longer discern the black from the white.

One night as Smeagol led them along the side of the Ash Mountains she confronted him about it. He stroked her gently; Smeagol had run off some five minutes before to find food, so Frodo did not fear being watched.

Patience thinned within herself, the Ring melted into her womanly form before Frodo. He paused; he'd told Sam he didn't think he would make it back home. Right now he didn't want to make it back home. He felt so confused, so broken, irrepairable. He just wanted to perish when she did. He would never have to live with his scars; he was losing the motivation to move on. Nothing made sense anymore.

"Frodo, love . . ." Delamarth paused as his eyes grew tired, hurt, perplexed. He swallowed, burrowing into himself. She reached for him, but he scrambled back.

"You've hurt me enough," he managed. "Why must you continue?"

Delamarth sank to her knees. She'd been telling herself the exact same thing endlessly, at least since they'd left Gondor if not longer. She didn't want to hurt him, but she realized perhaps she could never convince him of that.

She laid her hands over his chest, rubbing them up to his shoulders. Frodo complied only for a moment before cowering from her.

Delamarth sighed, biting back sorrowful emotions she'd never bared before. She didn't want to start now, not if it would require a lack of weakness to carry her through this situation. "I must continue because I want you more than anything." She tried to bite back her candor, but it escaped too quickly . . . and more followed. Against her own will she grabbed his cloak, bringing his body to her. He writhed and squirmed helplessly, as if unsure of even what he wanted. She traced his jaw with the back of her hand. "You can run—," She cringed at her own words. She sounded no different; she knew not how to say what she felt. She didn't know the language of truthful affection. "But I will always be there for you."

"Leave me!" Frodo cried, his own soul at war with itself. He couldn't decide what he wanted, but he knew in the face of this woman he was terrified. She could only drag him deeper into the depths of what Frodo thought was wrong. But he could not rip himself from her grasp—taking her to Mordor only made her more powerful. Leastwise, it made the form of her Ring more powerful.

She refused to let him go despite the warning she felt: it would be wiser to let him be, to sacrifice a few moments with him to have his love in the future. But she needed him so much. It was a desire she never had felt before, one no creature in the world ever had, perhaps an exemplified covetousness for one to have a great treasure that had sentimental value. She grabbed the back of his neck and desperately kissed his pale, flawless forehead, then trailed kisses down the side of his face to his jaw. Frodo wrenched away from her, slamming back into the rock at his sudden need to keep her affectionate contact. It was not a typical desire for him either. It was a greed for treasure, prestige. It almost seemed nothing to do with a man loving a woman, but a king lusting for his throne, willing to slay in cold blood to maintain power.

He shook his head wildly. "Please, no," he managed. "You are a tool of evil, and I will never truly want you."

Delamarth pursued him, and he stood to run. She yanked back on the cuff around his wrist, and he struggled against the closing gap between them.

"You will," she insisted darkly. "You will. You will want me, Baggins. I will be Precious to you; you cannot destroy me."

"I must; it is my quest!" Frodo nigh yelped for the terror and pain that clambered through his spine. He collapsed to the ground, writhing to get away from her.

She shook her head, her eyes narrowing with distraught perplexion. She didn't want to hurt him; what more could she do? Her need to have him overwhelmed every other feeling in her. "You cannot destroy me, for I will not watch you be ruined." Her eyes grew fiery, and Frodo cringed under her heated gaze. "Turn back. Go to the Shire; I will save you from Sauron. I only wish to be with you."

"You are not yourself," Frodo said under his breath. His eyes doubled in size while he surveyed her.

Her gaze hardened. "No," she hissed, reaching down. She clutched his shirt and dragged him to his feet. "I am more myself than I have ever been before."

She would find a new freedom, a freedom from Sauron, from loneliness. She would force Frodo to take her back, torture him as she must until he subjected to saving her and himself.

Gollum led Frodo and Sam to the stairs. Delamarth ensured that Gollum wanted her again; she heard him talking to Smeagol, and after Frodo's "betrayal" with Faramir the creature was more than pliable. She could work out a deal with him if necessary to keep Frodo alive, or at least command him until he couldn't think anymore.

Every night she appeared to Frodo when Sam was asleep. She hissed in his ear, kissed his cheek, held him by the shoulders and whispered what she thought of his strong mind and his attractive face until he cried out for her to stop. He begged for Sam once, growing more exhausted in this ever-increasing nightmare. She dragged on the cuffs of his chain, commanding him to turn back, take her to the Shire, let them run to the north where Sauron would not know to follow.

Her words, repeated for Frodo and only in her mind, grew more convincing and enticing for her. She needed Frodo to avoid Mordor. She started pacing circles around him as he stumbled towards the stairs of Cirith Ungol, and up them. She wrapped the chain loosely around his neck, tugging back on him.

"Turn around," she whispered. "Turn around, go back!"

Then she would change her mind when he finally had to stagger, weakened and unable to move more, against the stair wall.

"Your quest, Frodo love," she hissed, dragging forward. "Destroy me, if you can."

His eyes flickered tiredly. She had to harden herself to that exhaustion, to the tears that occasionally trickled down his face. She rationalized that if she got him torn down enough that he would eventually either give up or fall unconscious long enough for her to get him lost, or far away from here. Far enough that he would not destroy himself.

But her pressures on him even plagued her in a way she scarcely wished to recognize, and so ignored as long as she could.

It made her more conflicted, although gave her an outlet to her frustration. She found her paining of him to rub back on her, making her raw and broken. She maintained a vicious air; Frodo wouldn't have guessed at her transitioning from malice.

That is, not until Sam and Smeagol were both gone one hazy afternoon. Smeagol left to find food, but Sam grudgingly admitted that chances were excellent that "the little stinker won't bring back more than a raw piece of fish tail." He lightly kissed his master's forehead—receiving a subsequent slap to the psyche from the Ring—and left to find food.

But food was not what Frodo needed. In his irritation at Smeagol Sam had dismissed that Frodo needed no sustenance other than lembas, was convinced that a hearty meal would help Frodo's constant exhaustion. But Delamarth knew better. She'd sensed it in Frodo, tried to warn him, but he ignored her every word, begging her to leave him alone no matter what she told him.

He hadn't had water in almost three days.

Not that he could do anything for it: Sam's waterskin was constantly full, and Frodo never filled his, much less drank from it after it emptied for the first time. He never had the motivation or desire to do more than just drag himself forward one step followed by another.

Finally he fell unconscious. Delamarth happened to be glaring at Sam while he walked away when Frodo's head slacked back against the rock, lacking so much in water that his body began to fail. Delamarth felt his heartbeat slow . . . and panicked.

"Frodo!" She melted, kneeling before him desperately. "Frodo, love," she pleaded. She grabbed him by his shirt collar, testing his pulse, feeling his cheek. Her heartbeat sped up, and she dragged him from the ground. "Don't die on me, please! Frodo, please." She lifted him into her arms—she was not a weak creature—and dragged him as quickly as she could away. She listened intently, but could hear no water no matter where she looked; she walked a great distance, searching frantically. She finally stopped, kneeling down in desperation. She bundled Frodo up against her neck, cupping the back of his head for a free hand. She buried her knuckles in the ground, feeling the earth so close to Mordor, to what had been her home.

Blackness seeped through the ground, rumbling down through the rock until she found a small stream of water far below the mountain, down where life wouldn't dare to grow. She strained with everything she had, dragging it up through the stone. It strained and fell, eroded with angry power against the rock barrier above it. She finally clenched her fist with one last throttle of effort, and the water broke the soil surface. She swallowed with relief, trembled with sudden weakness. She'd never been so distraught or exhausted before; she was giving up more for this hobbit than she'd ever bargained for.

She lifted Frodo over the spring and dug through his pack for some kind of dish or container to help him drink with.

"Frodo, love," she whispered desperately. She was surprised to find herself almost out of breath; she'd never felt that way before. She swallowed and cupped his jaw, kissing his nose hopefully. She could find nothing and was running out of time. Delamarth rounded her hand tightly under the spring she'd created, and the water splashed against her fingers. She brought her fingers to Frodo's lips, tipping her cupped hand back at least to wake him up.

But he did not awaken to her touch. She let the water fall away to the ground, then gently prodded his mouth open. She fingered his dry lips longingly, wondering if he would ever kiss her, if she could ever call him hers. Perhaps it would be if she kept him alive.

She hurriedly scooped more water from the stream and carefully allowed it to trickle into Frodo's mouth. The chill scattered through his itchy, dry throat, and his eyes bulged open with the sudden icy caress. His eyelids settled again with exhaustion; he was too dehydrated to process.

Delamarth gasped and shuddered when she realized Frodo was alive, then finally located the skin in Frodo's pack and filled it to the brim with water. She tipped the vessel, brought it to meet Frodo's mouth. After two or three skinfuls he regained full consciousness and hungrily bent down for more water. She held him by the chest and back while he swallowed continuously until he managed to halt. Her fingers twitched against the muscles in his shoulders—she didn't understand what more she could do to have him. At least he was alive.

Frodo breathed hard, then backed away to glance up at her. His vision cleared, and he sat back worriedly.

"Delamarth . . . why . . .?" He swallowed. "Why did you do this?"

"I wasn't about to let you die," she said matter-of-factly. She trembled, wanting to tell him that she was afraid she'd lost him. "Sam didn't know, and Smeagol was gone."

"Did they leave us here?" Frodo asked dizzily. He glanced around at the bare rock; while the last few weeks had been like this, the particular formation didn't look familiar. "This place doesn't seem right." He pointed up at a nearby cliff. "That wasn't there . . . Sam left me somewhere lighter than here."

Delamarth nodded slowly. She'd been hoping she could get Sam and Smeagol lost, just be alone with Frodo. "It wasn't here." She stopped, but Frodo stared at her expectantly. "What?"

Frodo nodded, prompting. "Aren't you going to take me back?"

She snorted before allowing her gaze to settle intently. "I've been waiting to get you alone."

The hobbit scrambled to his feet, his eyes widening with fear. "No," he insisted. "You will take me back or I will leave you here and go back myself."

"You'll never find your way back."

Frodo's eyes narrowed with exhausted conviction. "I'll die trying, then."

Delamarth almost didn't want to test if he was serious. She crossed her arms and eyed him carefully, not willing to let him go. "I'll take you back, but you are weak," she said stubbornly. "You must let me carry you a little."

The hobbit cocked an eyebrow. "There is nothing you can do that would let me allow you to carry me."

She sighed. "Then at least put your arm around me, and I can help you. I am stronger than you are, after all." When he gave her a disbelieving expression, she rolled up her sleeves. "I did bring you all the way up here."

Frodo finally subjected, laying his arm around her shoulders. She wrapped her arm solidly around his waist, squeezing him close to her. He flinched slightly, but soon he had no choice but to rely on her as his body succumbed once again to weakness. They walked for close to an hour before they reached a place that Frodo thought looked a little familiar. He stared down at Delamarth, who did not even look at him. She felt relieved if nothing else, remembering her terror sitting in that little clump of rock.

"You were dying," she whispered fearfully.

"Mr. Frodo!"

Delamarth quickly pecked Frodo's jaw and slipped into place around his neck. He stood, stunned and without support. He shakily sat down as Sam approached, grabbing his master's shoulder.

"Mr. Frodo, are you all right?!" He rubbed his fingers over Frodo's face, and the Baggins nodded, weakly throwing Sam off.

"I'm fine, Sam."

"You were gone!" Sam swallowed, choking up just a little bit. He continued to muse over his master's condition, but Frodo's thoughts were stuck on Delamarth, on how far she'd carried him just to get him water, as though she wanted him to live. He couldn't possibly conceive how or why she would deceive him in such a way, what dark intentions she could have in doing what she did.


	20. Crushed - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: My thoughts exactly; I love going off-canon; I'm glad you liked it. :D Psychologically it gets even more grey . . . the next chapter is my favorite. X) But I decided to save that part for next time, 'cause-well, 'cause it's the best part. Oh, providential! I watched RotK this week too, funny that. XP  
Sad. :( Well, the muse will not be rushed. *GASP* Another Frodomance? Hey, I'm all over that. :D**

Delamarth didn't know what changed: maybe Sam was less careful, or the road was more treacherous, or Frodo was too tired to notice, or perhaps a combination of elements, but somehow Frodo managed to get in danger far more often. She ended up grabbing him just before he would tumble down the side of the stairs or give him food when he couldn't walk anymore for lack of sustenance. She asked him once if he was doing anything to stay alive . . . and he told her he did not care to anymore.

That troubled her. She hung rather worriedly around his neck; she didn't know if she could manage to see all of his needs. Surely she could see them better than Sam, for she had insight directly into his body even when he did not voice his need to stop walking or anything to that effect.

She spoke to Smeagol one night, told him that she wished him to keep Frodo alive. But he needed to drive the "fat one" away. It was the first time she had appeared to the creature as a woman since leaving him, and he eyed her very greedily. After being with Frodo, this frightened Delamarth. She managed to gush out a rather decent performance, but Gollum couldn't have cared less. He enthusiastically agreed to her every command, and then she let him sleep. More she forced him to sleep; he wouldn't stop creeping up on her, reaching out to touch her. But she didn't want him; she wanted Frodo.

Frodo lay perfectly still nearby. She crept over to him and shook his shoulder. Well, she'd intended to: she managed to shake him only for a moment before she got lost in the slope of his jaw, of his neck, of his back. She admired him as one would a glass window, as a valuable statue of gold . . . not as a living creature. Her fingers slithered over the Lorien cloak, down his arm to where his shivering hand lay on the ground. She entwined her own with his, laid her head on his shoulder. Only then did she realize how much more substantial her desire for him felt—how much more she needed him in a way she could not control, how much more she wished him to be well than since the last time she'd done this.

Frodo awakened to her touch, but could not scramble away. He hadn't the strength or capability anymore.

"Please, no," he moaned.

Delamarth shook her head. "Frodo, love, I'm not here to—," It was perfectly useless. She threw it off; he would either believe she was here to hurt him or not. "Frodo, you're killing yourself. Don't do it."

Frodo eyed her balefully. Purple rims surrounded his eyes, and guilt stabbed her for a moment. "I'm killing me?" He sat up more, his voice cracking slightly. "I simply make no effort to keep my body going. I think that's better than you've done."

Her eyes flamed. "Done when?!" She stood abruptly, and Frodo had the initial sense to cower a little as she stood over him. "Frodo, over the past few weeks you've done nothing but nearly die and leave the quest to that dense Samwise!" Frodo glared darkly at her with this and scooted away, but she ignored him and kept going. "The only reason he isn't skewered by orcs and I'm not in the hands of Sauron is because I've kept you alive in all those moments, and the least you can do is take my attempts to keep you safe and perhaps keep the Ringbearer of Middle Earth alive!"

"What makes you care?" Frodo stared at her, his eyes flooded with hurt confusion. "I would have thought you'd be pleased to be back in Sauron's hands."

Delamarth again shook her head, furiosity bubbling up within her. Her fists clenched. "He is not my master," she seethed. "I've always been my master . . . and I am a slave or servant to none. I was always the dominant force."

Frodo lifted a quivering eyebrow. "I can see that."

She knelt down. "Please, Frodo, I need you to live." She swallowed, cupping his cheek desperately. Her thumb quickly smoothed his jaw, and he turned in an attempt to break contact with her. "Don't let me go back. Please."

Frodo sighed, glancing at the ground. "Delamarth, either you will be back with Sauron or in the Crack of Doom," he said slowly, "and it will certainly be the latter if I survive this." He didn't continue, didn't tell her he didn't want to watch her destroy Middle Earth or melt away slowly into the flames of her origin. He swallowed and looked at the ground.

"Please," she said again, as though she didn't hear him.

Frodo clenched his eyes shut.

"On the condition that you leave me alone on the days you wish me to live," he whispered. He didn't want her to leave him, not after she'd been saving him, but now he could save himself. Or so he thought.

Delamarth exhaled slowly. "Of course, love." She'd been hoping for a loophole; it would not be difficult to work around. She grabbed his hand again, reassured by the pulse of his blood and the soft friction of his flesh in her grasp. Frodo weakly attempted to rip his fingers away from her, but she would not let them go. She brought his hand to her mouth, brushed her cheek across it gently until her lips came around to his knuckles. She pecked the back of his hand a couple of times, then kissed it more fully. She let out a deep sigh, and Frodo strained to have his hand back. So her kisses were tender, but Frodo did not trust the gentility of her touch.

She released it when she wished to and no earlier, partially to prove a point and partially because she didn't want his negative opinion of her to matter to her. She slipped back up around his neck, then prodded him slowly to sleep. He staggered back into lying down until his eyes closed, allowing him into fitful rest.

Even as the days grew darker, Frodo grew more and more ambivalent to the concept of dying and carrying Delamarth with him. At this point he wished to jump in after her, envied her ability to slip away from this world. As he walked along with a stubborn but weakened conviction, Delamarth heard an ear-splitting crack from above him. Leastwise it was earsplitting for her, for she could feel the very fibers of the land surrounding Mordor.

But Sam and Smeagol were oblivious, walking too far ahead, and Frodo did not care. She stared up frantically as the cliffside began to crack deep down, a breach in the mountain soon to surface. A huge boulder stood, ready to fall right into the path. She melted suddenly, grabbing Frodo's shoulders, his chain, anything.

"Frodo, wait!" she cried. "Frodo, there's a—,"

Frodo threw her off, struggled against her every effort. "Delamarth, I haven't time or energy for this," he managed, blinking as much of the exhaustion as he could from his eyes, which was not a substantial amount. He tore away from her, still walking forward.

"Frodo, you'll die if you keep moving. Stop here, please!"

"I've been aware of that since I started this quest," he murmured.

She grabbed his shoulders again, but he was adamant. "I mean it! You will be crushed! There's a huge bo—!"

The crack surfaced, the boulder splitting from the mountainside just above them. Delamarth let out a cry and barreled against Frodo's back, shoving him out of the way. She leaped after him, but not soon enough. The boulder slammed into her legs before bounding off the other side of the mountain; she collapsed to the stony ground with a shocked moan. She'd never felt mortal pain, had never been in such circumstances. She was a Ring, a treasure of the earth, not meant to feel pain. Luckly she could not be destroyed out of Mount Orodruin, but as a woman could be wounded. She gasped for air as her legs screamed in agony. Frodo raced back to her side, scrambled to drag her away from the clouding dust that had arisen in the boulder's wake.

"Delamarth!" Frodo brought her up into his arms, and she suddenly realized why this was all worth it, understanding that Frodo was still alive. She wrapped herself furiously against his torso, gripping his shoulders. "Delamarth, are you all right?"

And he was concerned for her. She allowed her eyes to sink closed, taking in the feeling of this hobbit in her embrace. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I am."

"But your legs . . ." Frodo's countenance fell as he surveyed them through the ripped fabric of her dress. Bruises were already beginning to form, and she might have fractured a bone. The boulder also cracked into the skin, allowing molten, golden blood to trickle to the surface of her flesh. He fingered the liquid away as best he could. "We must get you bound up."

She shook her head vehemently. "If I remain a woman long enough my injuries will heal themselves," she said. "Sauron promised, and if I call upon him to do it he will heal me." _Instantly, but you do not need to know that._ "Just remain here with me," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. She reached back and kissed his nose. "You're alive," she added in a whisper, allowing her eyes open to survey him.

Frodo nodded slowly, a little perplexed and feeling somewhat invaded. He abruptly changed his tone.

"But I must carry on," he said. "Would you not heal better as a Ring?"

 _Yes._ "No, I'm afraid not." She bit her lip. "It would freeze my healing progress to no longer be in woman form. I must remain like this."

Frodo gently scooped her up off the ground. For being strong, Delamarth was also strangely light. He glanced at her as though asking if he could carry her, and she nodded forward, subtly tightening her grip on his neck. She laid her ear against his shoulder; Frodo was such a strong, sweet hobbit, despite everything she'd put him through.


	21. I Didn't Do It For Me - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: They'll get better . . . I think . . . XD Yeah; I figured T could be safe. :)  
*happy dance* IwinIwinIwin! That's exactly what I wanted! I owe you things, like reviews and magicalness and anything else I have that is good to give you. :D  
It's a good thing I'm following you, then, 'cause I'm flippin' watching for updates. XD This'll be exciting! I wish you luck with the muse . . . the "mess" I'm tempted to call it.  
Well, the series is done, but I'm still writing other things. XD**

 **This is the best chapter. O.O I hope you guys like (muahahahahaa).**

Frodo carried her for some time before her legs grew substantially strong (she kept the healing process away as long as she could), but he did not look and she did not tell him. She remained there for the rest of the day before Sam said it was time to rest, which Frodo minded nothing of. He set Delamarth down against the stone and bid her a good night, confused by how much he'd wished to hold her. He shivered at the thought, certain he did not truly want her.

Delamarth watched him longingly, and didn't let it go for long. She waited until Sam and Smeagol were asleep, then slipped across the rocky ground to Frodo's side and curled up at his back. He was not yet asleep and so stiffened to her touch. He abruptly rolled over; she didn't look guilty at all, but he felt as though she should have.

"You can walk acceptably now, it seems," he muttered.

She nodded. "Now I can, yes. To an extent." She exhaled slowly, reaching up to hold his cheek. "Oh, Frodo, I almost lost you."

"And what does it matter to you?" he protested. "To avoid Sauron simply because he believes he's your master? What is it that you want?"

Delamarth's eyes widened, then narrowed. She sat upright, and Frodo followed. "To avoid Sauron? All I'd have to do is get back with Smeagol to avoid Sauron! That little sneak could take me up north and conceal me in the darkest caves, better than you've attempted or even thought of doing."

"Indeed," Frodo replied, his words building up heatedly within him. "Admittedly I have no intention of hiding you; the Dark Lord would come after anyone who attempted to keep you away, and you would return eventually. I don't know your motives for returning to Mordor, but they can't be good, and they can't be to serve Sauron if you are so adamant. So why? Why go back?"

"Because I had control!" She stood, and Frodo got to his feet as well. It was working, she assured herself . . . "Sauron obeys me, and commands the armies of Middle Earth itself. His enemies are weak, always have been. The only times he has failed he refused to listen to me. My persuasive powers, my very essence, is most useful when one knows incredible power. So the fact that I'm still here with you and you are not begging for mercy or the ability to control me is an astounding feat for a little farm hobbit."

Frodo's eyes narrowed. "I only intend to do what is best for the world as a whole. Not every creature in this world needs power to be happy."

She shook her head, amazed. "Then what would you suggest in place of power? Power would grant you the liquidity of want that you could never fill otherwise."

"Love, Delamarth," Frodo insisted, as though it were only too obvious, which it was to him. She stiffened. "The capacity to care for another being more than yourself!" He settled, remembering Sev very starkly. He shook it away, moving to lie down again. "As if you did. I suppose power is the best substitute for a creature of darkness like you."

Delamarth desperately grabbed his shirt collar, and he jolted to his feet. Unfamiliar torrents of raw pain and desire bubbled up within her as she slowly walked towards him. He backed into the rock behind him as she progressed. "Love?" His fingers nervously gripped the stone. "You're right."

Frodo stared at her, disbelieving. "You think I would be deceived by you? You know nothing of love. Greed is your paradigm."

Now it all bubbled over. She released his collar and swung her wrists, and the cuffs of her hands bound Frodo's close to her. He writhed, trying to break away, but she locked him against the cliff. Pebbles and loose rock skittered around him at the force with which she shoved him up by his back. "Nothing!" Delamarth shook her head. "I gave you water, carried you for an hour only to dig it out of the ground with everything I had. I smashed a serpent, a source of power in my own land, to keep you from being killed. I dragged you from the stairs before you could plunge to your death off the side. I fell before that boulder, smashing my own body—," with this she pointed to her legs, slowly stepping closer to him, "—and I didn't do it because I want you to be the one to destroy me." Tears built in her eyes, and for the first time in her life they began to race furiously down her cheeks. Emotions, tearing and ripping through her wildly thudding heart, flooded her with thoughts and painful sensations she'd never known. For the first time she knew she was telling the truth with every fiber of her being."I didn't do it to get back to Sauron. I didn't do it to prolong misery for a little farm hobbit. I didn't do it to prove a point, and I didn't do it for me, Frodo Baggins, I did it because I love you!"

Frodo stared, wide-eyed, at her statement. He didn't believe her one bit. He shook his head, but she looked serious. The shimmer of tears against her perfect skin sold it more than anything. He crumpled in place, eyes watering slightly with the pain of realization. He could see her in the lava again, as he often envisioned her, crying out in pain . . . begging him to save her.

"No," he whispered. He felt as though he'd already failed.

Delamarth's gaze softened only for a moment as her tears dried. "No?" She reached forward, tipped up his chin. Her voice cracked. "You do not believe me? What more could I do to prove it to you?"

He shook his head, slowly, then wildly. "No. There must be some trick to it. You've twisted my mind, I swear."

Delamarth sighed shakily, not quite feeling fully resigned to this moment. She would finally have him, and if this did not subject him she would knock him unconscious and take him north herself. She couldn't abide to have him taking steps towards her demise, to the demise of them both.

"I suppose there's only one thing I could do to show you."

Her tone rebounded like a dark growl through the stone around them. Frodo scrambled back, not wishing to know what she would do, but she had him up against the cliff, and stood very close to him. He could go nowhere.

Delamarth released his wrists with her hands, but she wrapped her chains solidly around them and stepped on the ends, locking him down. He struggled, but could not move. She then lifted the chain extending from her collarbone and wrapped it slowly around his neck, feeling every bit of the moment. She awakened her senses, exhaled in a long breath. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut; she looked frighteningly apprehensive, and he didn't really want to know why.

She grabbed both ends of the chain around his neck, and Frodo stared hopelessly; nothing short of agonized terror flooded his eyes. The cold metal carved into his skin, refused to let him back away as she studied him intently.

"Please . . ."

Delamarth reached forward, not oblivious to his plea but almost wishing she was. Her lips neared his, and Frodo staggered against the stone wall. She breathed softly; her words came out a whisper, trembling with anticipation of what she knew was more real and true than anything she'd felt before.

"Frodo, my Precious."

She brushed a light kiss over his mouth, only to be flooded with an indescribable wave of tingles. Fire erupted in her blood, warming her fingers and soothing her injured legs. She let out a soft sigh: it was a short kiss, but it filled her with nothing she could ever have imagined. Taken aback by the sudden gentleness of her lips, Frodo stared up at Sam. Realization hit him like a rockslide; his eyes widened. His pulse escalated with fear, and he accordingly breathed desperately. He had to get out of here. Right now Delamarth looked nothing short of stunned, her eyelids flickering and her jaw limp.

"Sam!" he cried out, terrified. But Delamarth would not have it; his exclamation snapped her out of her paralysis. She yanked down on the chain, and her lips trapped Frodo's. He protested, straining to escape. She clamped her fingers in his hair, locking him in place as she kissed him intently, turned her head restlessly and kissed him again. Her arms surrounded his shoulders and gripped them fast; she could not have him enough. He scrambled back with nowhere to go and no way to get there. She at last pulled away, gasping for air, and Frodo did the same, trembling and shaking his head.

Delamarth reached forward and kissed his gentle lips once more; his desire to breathe left him. "Oh, Frodo, my love," she whispered—such a miraculous touch, that kiss was. She grabbed him around the waist, held him close, as she trailed kisses along his jaw, pecked his forehead. She owned him, and she knew it. "My Precious, my very own."

Tears raced down Frodo's cheeks, and her lips traced across them. "Please!"

She shook her head, locking her forehead against his. "No," she hissed. "No, you are mine, Baggins. You are mine."

"Sam!"

Sam awakened at last to Frodo's cry and scrambled to his Master's side. Sam couldn't see Delamarth as a woman, so as she lowered Frodo to the ground his companion didn't detect any immediate danger.

Frodo breathed heavily, his eyes strained and his cheeks flooded with tears. Delamarth crouched behind his back, unable to leave him for how he fascinated her, and for how heated her emotions were regarding him. She had never felt so passionate about anything, not even her hunger for power.

"Sam . . ." Frodo managed. He bit his lower lip, defeated. The sting of her desperate, dominant kiss still lingered there like a burn. She'd branded him forever, marked him as her slave in a way he would never forget. Even if he destroyed her, her affection would be something time could not erase and light could not heal. He'd never been kissed before, especially not like that, but something deep within knew her actions were too dark and insistent to be normal.

His gardener approached gently. "What's wrong, Mr. Frodo?"

Delamarth hissed as Sam lowered to his master's side. Frodo jolted at the sound she made, suddenly afraid of what she might do. He remembered what he'd told her when the Fellowship divided: she could do what she wanted with him if he left Sam alone.

 _Please, don't hurt him. You can do what you want with me._

She paused: she hadn't considered killing Sam in that moment, but realizing that Frodo cared about Sam more than he did about her, she badly wanted to strangle the hobbit herself. She held herself back—if she killed Sam now, her chances to get to Frodo were completely lost. He would never forgive her, never smile that tantalizing smile again, never have that light dance in his eyes like he used to in the Shire. She didn't know how to initiate those things in him herself, but she would learn.

Frodo would have to get rid of Sam.

But that thought didn't stop her from being jealous of Sam and protective of Frodo. Sure, Frodo would never love Sam like he could love Delamarth, but she didn't know how to show him that.

Sam reached for Frodo's hand, and Delamarth hissed louder. Frodo turned back to stop her, but she pinched Sam's skin; a flame sparked from her fingers, just to singe the gardener's hand. Sam cried out and fell away from Frodo. Delamarth protectively wrapped her arms around Frodo's torso, squeezing him close before he could follow the other hobbit. Frodo scrambled desperately, but in vain, against her grip.

"Sam! Sam, are you all right?!"

The Gamgee nodded, staring in wonder down at his hand: there was no mark where he could have sworn he felt a sharp, burning sting. "I'm all right, Mr. Frodo," he said absently. He glanced up, and then his face paled. Frodo's eyes sank shut; he had no doubt Sam could see Delamarth.

Delamarth glared darkly at Sam. She allowed herself to slightly fade into view, almost like a ghost in his vision, hanging on possessively to his master.

"Get back, you!" Sam cried, standing abruptly. Frodo attempted to warn him off, but not before Delamarth's hand cupped Frodo's neck, her fingers bracing faintly. He swallowed and wished he could be away from this nightmare. He didn't care if he didn't survive the quest, just as long as he could escape this; her thumb traced over his neck.

The Ring's eyes blazed, and Sam hesitated with his hand on his blade.

 _"_ _Don't touch him again, gardener."_ She numbed Frodo's ears to her voice. _"Or I will crush you. I will force him to be rid of you, and you will live with his rejection for the rest of your life."_

Sam did not back down despite her warning. After a moment's shudder, he knelt by Frodo's side.

"Come here, Mr. Frodo," he said gently, extending his arms.

Frodo stared up at him. "Sam . . ." He pulled away from Delamarth's slackening grip, landing solidly in Sam's embrace. The gardener calmed his master, squeezing him close. He stared up darkly at Delamarth, angry at how she had terrified Frodo so—but then he shuddered at the horrifying threat in her eyes. She fumed watching them; friends though they were, she burned to be something more to Frodo.

 _You have sealed your fate, Samwise Gamgee._


	22. Deal and Bite - Delamarth

**Diem Kieu: Muahahahahaaa . . . my plot worked. X) Yep; intense and-well, I'm a sucker for kissing scenes. There you have it.  
Cirith Ungol has been covered in writing, not yet uploaded, but that said, she's more ecstatic to see him than anything; I'll probably tweak it a little bit. :D Perhaps, but I won't be the one to make that designation. :) I suppose I'll let you make the comparison when it comes out.  
Yep; I'm putting my bets on I die a happily hypnotized little ginger author. O.o  
Whoo! Keep going; I read!**

She let Frodo alone at night while they ascended the remaining stairs. But as they walked, she circled him, lowering her chain around his neck and tugging back lightly. Frodo writhed against it, dragged against her every touch in an attempt to move forward without giving in.

"Turn back," she whispered. "Take me far away from Mordor. Save yourself, love." He couldn't have known how much she meant that, but she had no intention of attempting to be sincere: he threw her off when she tried that, kissing him.

He shook his head, tears flooding to his tired eyes. "No. Leave me be . . ."

She dragged harder, then yanked once. Frodo stumbled back into her arms, and she wrapped one desperately around his torso. She kissed his cheek. "Be with me; be my Precious."

"No!" He shoved away from her, smacking against the rock. She wished to be concerned, but hardened herself. He did not care for her yet, and it only made her boil deep inside.

Obstinate hobbit. She didn't touch him then, and he carried on, struggling to take every step.

Gollum managed to get rid of Sam that day. Delamarth ignored her guilt as she watched Frodo tell Sam, his voice stone hard, to go home. She felt an indescribable pang in her heart at the terrifying, empty gleam in Frodo's eyes as he carried on without his best friend. Delamarth swallowed, ashamed of herself for looking back at Sam's sobbing form on the ground: he and Frodo cared about each other. And she claimed to love Frodo when all she could do was hurt him.

All the way up to Shelob's lair, Delamarth mourned her own miserable existence. Desired by the entire world but the one she wanted; she remembered Sauron going through the exact same difficulty when he fell in love all those years ago. She hissed it away—she didn't want to go back to Sauron and didn't want to think about how incompetent he was after knowing Frodo for so long. When she compared allowing Sam to remain and having Frodo alone, she realized bitterly that perhaps the latter was better anyway.

But as they walked up the stairs, she released Frodo from her influence a little bit. She hadn't realized she was psychologically hanging on to Frodo for dear life, and now releasing him allowed him to walk a tad bit faster.

Smeagol led Frodo through Shelob's lair, and suddenly Delamarth snapped into the reality of the situation. She eyed Gollum warily, and the moment he disappeared she melted down Frodo's vest and grabbed his shirt collar. Obviously Smeagol was angry enough at Frodo to betray him; she should have recognized that sooner. She wanted to go strangle the little creature, but first she had to get Frodo to safety.

"Frodo, you have to turn back," she said hastily. "You have to get out of here!"

He glared at her and shoved past her, not willing to say anything and put himself at risk again. She tapped her foot, angered and frightened, and yanked back on his chain. He struggled when she grabbed him; despite her urgency, she paused to feel the solid strength of his shoulders and arms. He scrambled away, wrenching back into the wall. He then jolted away from that—something remarkably tough and gummy trapped his skin, something latched to the stone cave.

"It's sticky!" Delamarth approached him, but he shied away from her, looking for Smeagol. "What is it?!"

Delamarth growled at Gollum's next words: "You will see! Oh, you will see."

Frodo fearfully marched forward. Delamarth hissed irritably and yanked back on his chain, digging her heels into the ground.

"Frodo, what are you doing?! You're going to get yourself killed!"

He bit his lip hard. "Delamarth, I don't trust you," he managed, throwing himself forward. "I've told you multiple times that I am prepared to die, and you are only attempting to get me away from Mordor . . . whyever you would, I'm uncertain." He attempted to distract himself by looking for Smeagol—and then realized the creature was nowhere to be seen.

"Frodo, we can go to Mordor!" she cried, leaping in front of him. He barreled on ahead, frantically searching for Smeagol. "Back to the Black Gate, around the stairs, please, anywhere but here!" She grabbed his shoulders, but he would not meet her gaze; his eyes were wide with fear and realization. She shook him. "Frodo, listen to me. Faramir was right: this place is too dangerous. Smeagol betrayed you, brought you here." Her tongue loosened a little bit as she finally could see images in her mind . . . images of Frodo wrapped in webbing, dead on the ground and stung by a poison even Delamarth hadn't access to.

No. Shelob couldn't have him.

But he adamantly moved forward, as though she had said nothing, until he realized she'd said something about Smeagol.

"He betrayed me?" Frodo whispered softly, finally staring into her eyes. That was a mistake: solid, hard gold stared back at him . . . with tears flooding it. He cocked his head, brow furrowed.

"You heard me," she whispered wonderingly. Frodo tore his eyes from her fleetingly, but couldn't ignore the sincerity of them. "You believe me!" She grabbed his collar; he struggled to back away without much luck. "I'm so sorry! Please, let's go. I wish I hadn't sent Sam away!" Her voice grew to a bit of a yelp, strained with honest pain. "I didn't mean to hurt you so much! Frodo, I'm so sorry!"

Frodo settled back. "Sam is gone. We cannot turn around." But tears pricked his own eyes. "Oh, Sam . . ."

Delamarth felt the spider's presence, but she thought she could protect him. She reached forward and embraced him. To her surprise, he complied, squeezing her close to him as though she were Sam. For a quiet moment they both understood a bit of the terror of the situation . . . of losing Sam, of losing Smeagol . . . of soon losing each other.

For a moment Frodo realized that perhaps she truly cared for him.

She pulled away. "Come. I can lead you away from the spider. Just put me on."

He turned her off immediately after that. The spider found him quickly enough, and he lit the light of Earendil to ward her away. Delamarth cringed at the light and couldn't function correctly in its presence; it fought her heavily, and she assumed with a slight sigh that it would fight Shelob as well.

Delamarth ignited furiosity—and a need to survive—in Frodo when Gollum revealed his treachery. She didn't do it on purpose, quite. Rather she wanted to kill Gollum herself, and nearly got Frodo to do it. But then his own feelings took over, refusing her call to strangle the frail creature before them. Gollum attacked Frodo, and Delamarth abruptly shifted into a woman, throwing Gollum into a nearby chasm herself. Frodo stared at her, horrified, as Gollum disappeared into the blackness.

"Cursed creature," she hissed. "He'll probably survive, I haven't a doubt of that. He's been through worse."

Frodo stared up at Delamarth, somehow suddenly afraid that she would do the same to him. But she leaned down to him and extended a hand.

She waited an impatient minute. "Are you going to take it or do I have to be the one to drag you to Mount Doom?"

Frodo's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"The quest!" she exclaimed. "Have you forgotten the whole reason you're dirty and in tatters?"

He shook his head. "You don't want to go back," he said slowly.

Delamarth sighed, exasperated. "Frodo . . . of course I don't." She swallowed and cupped his pale cheek. He didn't have the strength or motivation to resist. "But maybe—maybe if you—if you go . . ." Delamarth swallowed it back, closed her thoughts off to him as she considered what to say. _Maybe if you go and destroy me you will be a beautiful hobbit like you used to be. Maybe the burden of me will be gone. Maybe you can be back with Samwise Gamgee, find a sweet hobbit lass and be married with a family. Maybe you can save Middle Earth like you want and be celebrated across all corners, the world shouting your name in praise like it should after all I've done to you. I don't deserve you, do I? And you know it. You always knew._

 _No._

She abruptly knelt by his side and grabbed his shoulders. Frodo's eyes widened, but he didn't have time to react before she crushed her lips against his. A yelp of protest rose in the back of his throat; his consciousness flickered. He found he could breathe again when she broke away. He mangled his own conviction arguing to himself whether or not her kisses excited or devastated him.

"If you go to Mordor, I will show you why you want to turn back," she whispered desperately. "I will prove to you that I do not want to be with Sauron. You will not fail your quest; we will destroy Sauron together."

"But he carries on through you," Frodo managed.

Delamarth shook her head wildly. "We will find a way. I will eliminate him for you, and only for you, erase his soul from whatever pieces not of him I have in me and gain strength later." Then her eyes shot open. "Frodo, if I destroy him permanently, will you take me back to Bag End? Will you marry me, be my Precious forever?"

Frodo opened his mouth to refuse, but she abruptly kissed him again, desperation flooding her every move. She squeezed him close to her, bunched his rough Elvish cloak in her hands, ran her fingers over his shoulders. Finally she pulled away and stared into his pained, exhausted eyes. "I know you would say no," she hissed, "but you don't understand: if you don't agree, it will happen anyway. Your quest will fail. I will turn around this moment. I will knock you unconscious and carry you to a land you know not just to have you. Sauron will grow strong without his Ring and conquer your friends; you will not watch them suffer, but I have no doubt your thoughts will dwell on them until I give you a glimpse of their pain, of the realization that they are all dead or gone." She flashed an image in his mind of Sam, beaten and dead on the ground, of the Shire burning at the hands of orcs. He gasped audibly, shaking. "Do you doubt me, love?"

He trembled for a moment. For Sam, he tried to assure himself. For Bilbo, in Rivendell. For Gandalf. For the Fellowship, lingering somewhere hopefully far away from Mordor. For Sev, back at the Gaffer's home in the Shire. Could he abandon a courtship with her to marry this Ring?

He doubted Delamarth could destroy Sauron without destroying herself, and if she did manage to live, Frodo would throw himself in the lava instead. He would never mend, never could, from all he had seen and done . . . all he now desired. Some growing, wicked piece of him wanted to have her for himself. It gnawed at him through all of the thoughts he knew were actually true.

"I do not," he breathed. She neared him, but he refused to kiss her. "If you can destroy Sauron," Frodo whispered, turning away from her, "I will. I will be yours."

Delamarth smiled slowly. She would not fail him; she could easily be rid of Sauron.

"I am not doing this for you," Frodo muttered darkly. His eyes narrowed as he stared up at her. "And I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing this for Sam." He half had to convince himself that he truly did not want her—this need for her was not natural, and he liked none of it.

She nodded, trying to be gentle about it. "I understand." Then she brushed her lips against his soft ones once more, expecting him to kiss her back, but he had not as yet done any such thing and had no desire to now. She spoke against his skin, and he forced himself to recoil. "You will be my Precious, Frodo." She rubbed her cheek on his. "My Precious, my love . . . my Ringbearer."

Frodo curled up into himself, dreading her very presence for how she made him want her, how he wanted both to feel the perfect, warm metal surrounding his finger and how he desired just to hold her close. It had to be her power and nothing more; again it struck him as odd how it was less her as a woman, and more as an object of power.

She finally backed away and pulled him to his feet. They continued on from there; at a point of desperation, when Frodo realized how he had wronged Sam and how Delamarth scarred him with every step, Galadriel told him this was his task; no one else could do it. He determinedly accepted to keep going. Soon he could see Mordor just ahead of him. Delamarth shivered with chills—she could destroy Sauron and be with Frodo forever. She could stretch his life, turn invisible with him when he was worn and fade into the throes of awakening night with none other. He would never let her go, not if she could tie the last few knots binding him to her. To rip them apart would be to tear some of his own soul.

But then she felt a chilling, familiar presence.

The spider.

She turned before Frodo, pushing on his shoulders to hold him back, but then the spider's stinger scraped her shoulder on its way to plunging through Frodo's. The hobbit jolted against Delamarth and swayed on his feet. His vision tingled away to blackness, and he slacked over to the ground.

Delamarth fell with him, horrified. "No! Frodo!"

The spider scooped them up. Delamarth refused to leave him, and couldn't for how she was still bound to him by chain. She clutched his chest and shoulders, squeezing her eyes shut as the spider wrapped sticky, thick webbing around them. Had she been a mortal woman Delamarth would have shuddered at the slick roping at her back, but she did not care: the spider had killed Frodo. She turned to trembling, hopelessly frozen with the lifeless body of the one she loved until Shelob sucked the life from him.

But suddenly Frodo collided with the ground below her. Delamarth's eyes shot open . . . and then she heard a shout, a challenge.

"Samwise!" she cried.

The spider shrieked, although specifically at what Sam had done Delamarth didn't know. He fought the spider for some time; all the while Delamarth's hopes faded again. She nestled her head against Frodo's heart; it had stopped beating.

She didn't want to carry on.

Carry on where? She didn't want Sauron. She didn't want Middle Earth. She didn't want Smeagol, she didn't want armies, and she didn't want Bilbo. She didn't want the one she loved to be dead, gone. She wanted him. She wanted him to love her.

Her tears trickled against Frodo's skin. He was so empty, cold, dark.

"What have I done to you, my Precious?"

Finally Sam cut them loose. He was surprised to see a woman curled in a ball against Frodo's torso, and he slowly dragged her off of his master.

"What are you doing in there?" he demanded.

Delamarth weakly protested against Sam's vicelike grip on her wrist. She stared down at Frodo, her lips fluttering in disbelief as she tried to form coherent words. He stared up blankly at the distant, dark sky. "I . . . Frodo . . . the spider . . ." She broke down with a cry, burying her face in Sam's shoulder. She gripped him hard, sobbed as though she had no life to live.

Sam paused, then patted her back very reservedly. "It's all right, Miss . . ." He didn't know her name.

"Delamarth," she managed. She'd never been so agonized in her life. "Samwise, he's dead! Frodo is dead!"

Sam shook his head hurriedly. "He can't be," he whispered. He reached forward, desperately lifting Frodo into his arms. Delamarth couldn't halt the tears as Sam tried to coax Frodo back to life—but, of course, it was no use.

"Who are you?" Sam asked finally, glancing up at her through his red, puffy eyes.

She sniffled again. "Frodo called me Delamarth," she whispered, unable to tear her gaze from his dead form. "I am the Ring, the One to rule them all." _But I don't want them. He's gone._ She felt sick; she'd never been nauseated before. This surprised her only for a moment: no other pain was fitting enough for her realization that Frodo no longer lived.

"The Ring," Sam whispered. Then he stared down at the chain around Frodo's wrist and reached forward with a shaky exhale. He unclipped the cuff from his master's wrist. Delamarth had ensured that Frodo would not take her off. Her head shot up when she heard the click, and her eyes widened in horror as he sealed the cuff around his own wrist. "I guess I'll have to take you, now that Mr. Frodo is gone." He bit back another sob, lightly kissing his master's forehead.

Delamarth stared at him. "No!" She reached forward for Frodo, but Sam glared up at her.

"You did this to him, you . . . you . . . you demon!" He grabbed the three chains spreading to her neck and wrists and stood. She knelt by Frodo's side, dragged him up into her embrace. Sam yanked her away. She strained against him violently, and Sam buckled in surprise. He then reinforced his grip in the ground, dragging back until he had her coming back towards him despite her powerful struggle.

"Frodo!"


	23. Let Her Go! - Delamarth and Frodo

**Diem Kieu: Because Delamarth or because Frodo? Or because both? XD Yeah! I didn't either until I wrote it. O.o Guess the angst had to escalate. I didn't realize it, but . . . this is the last chapter. :( I think. Unless we make it non-tragic/lead into the HEAVILY AU sequel, but that'll be put as an Epilogue or sequel-Prologue. I'm going to miss your reviews so much! *tears down face*  
Oh, yeah, it'll be fascinating. XD Yeah, we're just about done. Sadness. :/**

 **A/N: This interaction here in Mount Doom, as far as Delamarth/Sauron goes, is less actual and more spiritual-psychological. It's a little on the brink if you will, partially in her mind and partially actually occurring, if that makes any sense.**

The orcs found him. Sam hid with Delamarth around his finger, and when one of the orcs pronounced Frodo still living, Delamarth nigh exploded from off of Sam's hand. They raced up to the tower, her nearly dragging Sam along for how quickly and desperately she moved. She supposed with an eyeroll that she should have known Shelob wouldn't kill him, but the loss of his heartbeat truly frightened her.

Sam fought the remaining orcs (it appeared that most were already dead), but as he did so Delamarth commanded their bodies to stop working. Each collapsed to the ground in a line. Sam stared at her in horror, but she cared not. She yanked him up the stone stairs until he lost his energy, and then she dragged him the rest of the way.

Finally they came to a ladder. Delamarth assumed Frodo was at the top, and she heard another orc threatening him. She let out an angry cry, grabbed Sam's sword, reached up and quickly eliminated that one.

Frozen on the ground, Frodo stared—terrified—as the orc slacked to the floor. But then he saw Delamarth, and somehow never had a face been so reassuring to him before. Not only did he realize she was initially attractive, but his despair, his consideration that he'd failed and that she was going back to Sauron, faded. Somehow that took more weight from him than it should have . . . as though he would have been jealous of Sauron having her.

"Delamarth!" Sam came up from the top of the ladder, straining to keep Delamarth back with the chain he still had. "Sam!"

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "I thought you were dead for sure, Mr. Frodo."

Delamarth strained against Sam, desperately yanking to reach Frodo. Frodo smiled somewhat at her—only half of it really felt false—and he glanced at Sam. Some bitter possessiveness flooded him.

"Let her go, Sam."

Sam's eyes widened. Suddenly he felt an urge to take her to Mount Doom himself; Frodo didn't have the strength to do it, especially not after being attached to this beautiful woman. Sam slacked his grip just a little, and Delamarth jerked forward. Sam hesitantly unclipped the cuff from his wrist at Frodo's persistence, and Delamarth swung it towards Frodo. It slipped like a magnet over his wrist, latching there. She leaped down to his side and grabbed him; she desperately held him close. Her hands rubbed over his shoulders, felt for his heart: it beat strongly now.

"Oh, Frodo," she managed. "My Precious . . ." She reached back and kissed his cheek. Frodo suddenly remembered why he'd been relieved in the back of his mind that Sam had her, and afraid that she would take him. But she did not stop there. She uncontrollably scattered kisses across his face, lifted his hands and did the same to them, taking all of him in. He moved to tell Sam that they should get going, but she lowered down close to him, whimpering with relief. Frodo's brows creased as he strained not to kiss her; she wanted it so, and she didn't hesitate to let him know . . . but he knew not to.

She finally pulled away, content simply to hold him. She cut his bonds, and Sam gave him orc armor with which to travel through Mordor. Delamarth told them not to take it, but they ignored her. She transformed once again into a Ring, and managed to navigate them through the armies of the orcs. While they were all gathered to war against Middle Earth as it was, she shielded Frodo and Sam from their eyes. She felt infinitely powerful here, now once again in Mordor.

But now she was closer to Sauron.

He hissed to her, commanded, begged her to turn around towards Barad-dur. She cut off her presence from him, and he could not find her.

Her initial focus on Sauron caused her to drag down on Frodo, completely oblivious to the pain she caused him. He crossed through the heat of Mordor with the horrid weight. Her chain began to saw into his neck, and she didn't halt until Frodo collapsed to the ground, only a few yards below the entrance to the Crack of Doom.

The Ring shivered with pain. She didn't want to go up there; she could die.

But she would do it to have Frodo.

Frodo strained forward, his hope and his motivation gone. He didn't even know what let him push forward now; even if he made it out alive, he would be too broken to keep going. Sam strained to his side when he could move no more, held him and tried to remind him of home. But Frodo could feel nothing. Delamarth blocked the memories of the Shire, trying in vain to get his focus only on her.

Fear alone reigned him, nothing she wanted. She strained back, allowed him release for a small moment while Sam set a determined stare.

"Then let us be rid of her!" he cried. Delamarth glared; Sam could not know what Frodo would do, for neither he nor she had told Sam about their deal. "Come on, Frodo; I can't carry her for you, but I can carry you!" He thrust Frodo over his back, and Delamarth bitterly allowed energy to channel through them both. The sooner they got this over with the sooner she could have Frodo to herself, allow his presence to consume her like she wanted more than anything.

But Gollum attacked. He only manage to wrest Frodo from Sam's back and attempt to choke him before Delamarth shifted into a woman and lividly cracked Gollum in the nose with a solid fist. Gollum howled, falling away. He and Sam fought while Delamarth dragged Frodo anxiously up the mountain; she gave him blind strength, allowed him to charge through the stone while she brought him up by the wrist.

They ran to the end of the precipice before she stopped him.

"All right. I shall call Sauron in and show you; he will die, and I will live," she said hastily, staring frantically over her back at the lava flowing in the mountain. She lifted her hand to call for her master, but Frodo grabbed her chain, snapping it down. She stared at him, her expression growing dark and skeptical.

"Delamarth," Frodo insisted. "When I promised to be with you, I knew you could not destroy Sauron without being rid of yourself."

Delamarth's eyes narrowed; truthfully, disbelief and fear flooded her on the inside. "Frodo, I explained to you—,"

"A phenomenon that is not possible," Frodo interjected. "I believe you were trying to trick me, Delamarth, and only now do I somehow have the courage and strength to say it." Conviction bubbled within him. "I could never be with you; you've hurt me too much." Then he faltered. "I thought I cared about you. Some illusion within me is convinced that I do! But Delamarth, I—it's not possible. You are no living creature that I could love . . . are you?" Tears pricked at his eyes as he surveyed her.

Delamarth stilled, unsure how to process all of this. She couldn't go. She couldn't leave him.

He unclipped the cuff of his chain and grabbed her shoulders, moving to throw her in. "Goodbye, Delamarth."

But before he could push, Delamarth latched her fingers around his shirt collar. "Wait!"

Then he heard Sam behind him. "Frodo!"

Frodo glanced up. "I'm here, Sam," he assured.

"Destroy her!"

Frodo turned again to shove her in. But even as his hands rested on her shoulders, he looked her face up and down: oh, how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her. He remembered every moment she took care of him, every moment she caressed him. He realized what a gap there would be in his own soul if she left. She had, after all, taken pieces of his to survive without Sauron. She'd become a part of him, something that he cared about in some sick and horrid way. His heart thumped wildly in his ears, and a blush spread across his face: he never would shake the look of pure agony and hope she gave him, the shimmer of her perfect, golden eyes capturing his like the chains she wore.

No: he wouldn't destroy her, couldn't.

He reached up and tucked a strand of perfect black hair behind her ear. Everything logical screamed at him, then sputtered out like a failing flame as he surveyed her every feature, traced her skin with his finger. Frodo leaned in reverently, brushing his lips against hers. Delamarth moaned powerfully at the simple touch she'd been waiting for so anxiously, allowing her eyes to slack back. She sank her fingers into his hair, then dropped her hands to surround his shoulders. He lifted her off the ground by the waist, feeling some harsh, greedy triumph as she enthusiastically responded to his kiss.

"What are you waiting for?!" Sam cried. "Just let her go!"

Frodo only let go to breathe. Then he pecked her lips again, laid his forehead down on hers. His lungs heaved with the sudden realization of his submission, how he had given up all the light he'd known for this greedy creature before him.

But he could not process that anymore.

Delamarth shuddered anxiously, unable to halt the huge smile spreading across her face. She would never forget that kiss, not for the rest of her life, the intent way he lifted her into the air and touched her like she actually mattered as something more than a Ring, more than a trinket of great power, as though she were a real being that he loved.

He turned, his arm around Delamarth's shoulders. She smiled smugly at Sam, revealing herself to him as a woman. Sam's expression dropped, filling with hopeless dread.

"Delamarth is mine," Frodo said darkly, now suddenly challenged by this creature that wanted him to let her go. He entwined his hand with hers, and she turned him invisible as was her obligation . . . and her desire.

"No!" Sam searched frantically for Frodo—and Sauron for his Ring. He could feel her power. His spirit departed the tower of Barad-dur, and the Great Eye vanished as he materialized in his armor at the Crack of Doom. None other present noticed; Gollum had bitten off Frodo's finger, yanking Delamarth from his grasp. Frodo collapsed to the ground, and Delamarth cried out in anger and pain.

"You cursed creature!" she hissed. She tried to throw Gollum off, but he would not have it. Finally, then, Sauron reached forward with one armored hand and knocked Gollum away, into the fires of Mount Doom.

His voice filled the mountain, and Delamarth shrank back in fear. "Indeed cursed, by you, my dear," Sauron said darkly. "As are the halflings." He reached towards Frodo and Sam—the latter unconscious from an attack by Gollum—to crush them himself.

"Leave Frodo alone!" Delamarth demanded, blocking Frodo's tossing form on the ground of the precipice.

Sauron knelt down before her. "I am your Master," he growled. "You will obey my word."

"No!" She knelt down by Frodo's side and lifted him into her arms. "He is mine. I never belonged to you, Sauron," she spat. "I am Delamarth, no longer your Ring but the property and master of Frodo Baggins of the Shire!"

Sauron roared powerfully; the magma stirred at his outrage, spewing forward, licking at the sides of the rock to burn Frodo. Sauron drew his sword from his side, advancing on the hobbit. "Get away from him, you traitor." He raised the weapon.

"But I love him!" She stood abruptly and summoned the power of Mordor, of the land she knew and drew her power from. She reached over to Sam's body and grabbed Sting from one hilt and his other sword from another. "You'll have to kill me to get him!"

The Dark Lord did not even flinch. "You think you care," he sneered. Delamarth cried out angrily, lunging at him. As she ran, she and the swords grew in stature until they matched Sauron. She fought him powerfully, nearly throwing him over a few times. She swung at his torso, and he dodged; she crossed her swords to trap his neck and he deflected them.

"You think he wants you. You think you are capable of truly cherishing a living creature! You are a fool; you are deceiving yourself, as if to think anything less than power is desirable." Sauron swung at her, crashing Sting into the side of the mountain. Delamarth hissed, lifting her foot to kick him back. Sauron doubled over at the impact to his stomach, and she wrenched her blade from the mountain. Rock crumbled dangerously, threatening to throw the entire volcano over.

Delamarth drove him towards the precipice. "I don't think; I know! I have done it, Sauron, sacrificed more for him than you ever did for me!" She yelled and reached around her sword hilts to grab his shoulders. She wrenched the helmet from his head and smacked her forehead against his, causing a crack to ring out through the mountain. "I do! I love him!"

Sauron shook his head, slightly dizzied. "No. If you loved him you would let him go," he hissed. Despite the throbbing in his head, he attacked her once more. His sword slashed down on her leg, and she cried out. "You will be the death of him, my Precious." Sauron bent down low over her, and she scrambled back fruitlessly. Her eyes illuminated with their fiery script at his nearness, and she found herself hypnotized by the power in his gaze. "You will destroy him, just as I have conquered you. You tricked him into thinking he cared.

"He can never love you."

Delamarth's eyes shimmered with tears, and she cried out in sheer desperation. She launched her feet under Sauron's stomach, throwing him back over the cliff with a whoosh. He scrambled on the edge of the cliff for a handhold, and she stood above him, prepared to throw him down inside. She glared at him, fire burning in her pupils. Livid rage forced her to step on his armored fingers in an attempt to throw him down. But then she heard a voice.

"Precious . . . "

She turned back. Frodo's finger bled profusely, and he strained across the ground towards her. She faltered when she realized his eyes were blind with possessive greed.

"Precious, we must go," he hissed. She stared, horrified, as the hunger for power and for the Ring crept over him. He extended his trembling, bloody hand. "Come, Precious."

Delamarth broke into a sob. "Oh, Frodo," she whispered, shrinking to his size once more. She knelt down by his side as Sauron attempted to launch himself back over the cliff.

Delamarth cupped Frodo's cheek in her hand, searching for that glimmer of light that she loved so much, but it was gone. Frodo stared blankly up at her, his brows furrowed and his lips curled in a snarl.

She cried above him silently, allowed tears to trickle down her face and drip against his skin. He reached up for her, and she held him as she would an animal once loved and now distanced. She kissed his cheek and backed away.

"I'm doing this for you, love," she whispered. Frodo's eyes illuminated with recognition as she backed towards Sauron, who managed to launch himself over the cliff. She drew Sam's sword once more, and Sting clattered to the ground before Frodo. He stood abruptly.

"No! Precious!"

She turned and ran towards Sauron, leaped, then slammed full-on into his breastplate. The Dark Lord howled as she barreled him over the side. He collapsed into the lava, thrashing about below. He would not die until Delamarth fell. Somehow she got her dress caught on a stone on the way down, and she reached up frantically to get herself off.

Sauron was right. She had ruined Frodo, had destroyed him without being rid of his physical body. Her fingers refused to function correctly: she remembered thinking she would shatter him like glass. She had done worse; she had broken him and built him, broken him and built him until the shards could not be glued together again by any power or love in the world—he would never be strong enough to heal from what she'd done to him.

She sobbed more as emotions flooded her. She would never see her precious Frodo again, but at least she would save him from lifetimes of pain in the process.

Frodo scrambled to the edge of the cliff. Watching her fall over the side frightened him; he waited for her screams to fill the air, but they never did.

"Wait!" He slipped over the side just as she undid the cloth of her dress from the rock of the precipice overlooking her doom. She began to fall, but didn't get far before Frodo grabbed ahold of her wrist. "Don't go!" He started to drag her upwards, but the blood on his hand caused her to slip down. "Don't let go!" He swallowed. "Come on. We can get out of here, both of us!"

Delamarth stared up at him longingly. "I thought I wouldn't see you alive." She smiled through her tears. "You are a wonderful creature, Frodo. I wish I could have deserved you, and I wish I could have loved you."

"Please . . ."

She shook her head. "I've ruined you. I wish I'd never been forged, if only it could have given you true life." She bit back her sobs; she couldn't abide the thought of seeing him at the last blurred in her eyes. She wanted to maintain his image forever, but at least she would have him until the moment she melted away. "I must go, for I have hurt you beyond repair."

He shook his head, reaching down to cup her cheek. "No! It could be all right! Please, come with me! I'll marry you, I'll run with you to the north." He realized, even if he didn't love her in the way she wanted, that she was a living being, and he had grown to care for her. She was a wicked creature, but she had some good in her. "Maybe you were forged for hate and destruction," Frodo continued, "but there is something valuable in you! Truly valuable, something beyond gold and power! You cared for me; you could become one of us! Please!"

Delamarth bit her lip, then reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He pulled back to bring her up, but she placed her finger over his mouth to halt his movement.

"Oh, Frodo." She sighed sorrowfully, but he thought she was resigning to his wishes, and he wrapped his arms around her waist to bring her up. She laid her hands on his shoulders and brushed her lips softly against his. Frodo reluctantly sank into the kiss, knowing this was not what he meant to communicate, but unsure how else to make her stay.

She squeezed him close, ensuring he did not drag her over the precipice. She lifted her mouth to his ear. "Goodbye, my Precious."

Frodo's eyes widened as she released his neck and fell backwards. He reached down for her suddenly, but he was too late. She condensed into a Ring and waited for the warmth of a destructive home to swarm her. The lava met her curve, and she settled on the surface. Frodo had not yet let go of her psychologically; at least he would have to convince himself not to come for her if she were to melt.

 _Go, my love,_ she pleaded. He remained on the edge, frantically searching for a way to save her. This was worse than hearing her scream; she had not melted yet.

"I'll save you, I promise!" he cried. But he could do nothing, and in some sort of way he had to accept that he was powerless.

 _You do not love me,_ she insisted as the lava crept through her metal and she began to return to where she'd come from. _Live a life, my Frodo. Go, be the hobbit you were meant to be. Forget about me._

But that would never happen, and she knew it.

It was her only regret, hurting Frodo in the way she had . . . being unable to truly love the one creature in the world that ever mattered to her.

As the lava swallowed her, never to let her see the one she loved again, Frodo's agonizing cry filled the air. Sam awoke to the terrifying sound.

"Delamarth!"  
 **I've decided to post the epilogue here, and then maybe again as a prologue for the next book, and I will make my thank yous there. :) I appreciate all that have read thus far!**


	24. The End of the Beginning

**Diem Kieu: It does. It ends. :( Sort of. Sequel, crazily enough. XP  
And here you have it! The end of this one . . . and the prologue to ****Frodo, My Precious** **.  
Yes! Writes! I will reads!**

Frodo wished he would have died there. The burden was gone, no dark creature remained to torture him, and yet he couldn't keep going. They tried to heal him, but his physical maladies were nothing. He was glad to see the Fellowship, although worn and broken. She lingered in his thoughts constantly, her kisses and sly words, her caresses and pleadings.

Gandalf was alive. Aragorn was crowned King of Gondor. They were now back in the Shire.

Nothing would bring him peace.

He tried to find Sev. He ran straight to Gaffer's, but Sam opened the door, teary-eyed.

"She's gone, Mr. Frodo!" he sobbed. "She up and ran away from home! No one knows what happened. Gaffer says he thinks the body they found eaten by wolves was hers, but I can't bring myself to believe that, Mr. Frodo!"

He comforted his friend as long as he could, uncertain about whether this was true. She was the only hobbit missing, and the body was unrecognizable. He didn't want to believe it, but he really had no choice. Regardless, Sev was not there. Bilbo was not there. He found solace nowhere.

Frodo lived in Bag End alone. He found himself writing about Delamarth, about what might have been if she had come to live with him at home. He was stuck: if she came with him, Sauron would not be dead and Middle Earth would be overrun. He could change nothing that had occurred; either path would have brought him endless pain.

Sam married Rosie Cotton, one of Sev's friends that was also devastated by her loss but ready to move on with life. It took some time for the four hobbits to adapt to life in the Shire again, but Frodo could never bring himself to do it. For years he wandered his home's empty halls, unable to rid himself of his pain or his memory. Instead of healing, his Morgul wound and the sting from Shelob grew, causing him greater grief, reminding him of everything he had gone through. While his eyes still worked perfectly, the world seemed to lose its color. While his mind was still functional, it didn't feel that way. He worked on the Red Book of Westmarch to keep occupied—that did not last for many years, only four, before Gandalf wrote him a letter about the Grey Havens and the departure of the Elves.

Evidently the Elves knew he would be scarred by this journey, specifically by the Ring. All those leaving on the last ship to the Undying Lands had Rings of Power of their own . . . although they were not aware that Frodo's appeared to him as a woman. They offered to him and Bilbo—sole surviving and long-term bearers of the One Ring—the opportunity to leave Middle Earth with them, seek healing in Valinor, where the Elves would never die and the hobbits would sink into peaceful rest.

Frodo leaped on the chance. Perhaps he would finally forget about her, find actual rest. Home had brought him nothing in spite of all he did to save it.

There were a few pages in his book by the time Frodo caught up to Sam's wedding to Rosie. He decided to give it to his friend, a final token of inexpressable appreciation for everything Sam had done for him. Through all of that, he wondered if he would have given in sooner without Sam. He certainly wouldn't have gotten far; he told Sam that.

As they journeyed to the Grey Havens, Frodo felt himself growing more worn. She would not leave him alone, and here, on the brink of healing, she pressured him more. Her voice repeated his name in his mind.

 _Frodo . . . my Frodo, my Precious, my everything. You left me to die. I miss you. Won't you come find me?_

Bilbo asked where she was. Frodo told her she'd run away, back to Mordor or wherever it was she wanted to go. He shuddered beside Bilbo when he heard her voice again.

 _Come back._ She moaned pleasurably. _Kiss me, love; did you think letting me into the mountain would keep you from wanting me?_

Frodo swallowed, biting his lip. He didn't wish to want her, but that ache—that greed now emptied by his lack of her—consumed him. He didn't know how leaving Middle Earth would accomplish being rid of that. They said physical healing was definite: there were dragons in Valinor, wise and powerful dragons skilled in all healing. Even if the dragons would not condescend to heal a hobbit, the Elves' influence could protect him.

But no matter what the light did to heal him, it could never protect him from his own desires.

As he thought about Delamarth all that time—not as a Ring but as a woman—he realized he truly did care about her. While her wickedness and subsequent impact on him was immense and blinding, she could have been an amazing mortal. What if he could have changed her?

What if she had longer to destroy him?

The battle could not be won by decision: it had to be won by what had already transpired. Frodo nearly limped his way to the harbor, less supporting his uncle with an arm and more taking support for how little energy and capability he had. He stared dismally into the sea; he felt hopeless, empty, like she had sapped him not only of his soul, but of his youth and motivation.

He doubted he could find any of those things in Valinor, but anything was better than an empty home where she might have been, for better or for worse, hearing his own pitiful footfalls echo in the empty hill, writing away the memories he wanted so desperately to regurgitate.

He gave Sam the book, told him he was leaving with Gandalf, Bilbo, and the three Ringbearer Elves. No tears came to him; he'd already cut himself off from the Shire, from the friends he had once loved with his entire being. But now he felt nothing. A little sorrow, of course, but he could not bring himself to truly miss what was already absent in his life: affection, to be cared for by another creature constantly by his side.

While Delamarth had hardly fit that, she made the attempt. And Sam had been there for him there and back, but now had a family.

Sam begged to come with him, but Frodo refused. "You have a life to live here, Sam, so much to be and to do." He swallowed, not willing to say that he had nothing. His purpose in life was complete, to be worn through with patches and holes for the world's sake. And he was glad not to be glorified for it; the ache would have been worse.

He embraced Merry fondly, then moved on to Pippin. He would miss them, but he couldn't feel the pangs deep down like he might have a few years ago. He had too much emptiness to fill again. He glanced up at Sam, taken slightly aback by the pain in his gardener's eyes. Sam inhaled sharply, squeezing Frodo close to him. He sobbed into his master's shoulder, feeling a little betrayed, but mostly helpless. He knew Frodo had to leave. Frodo attempted to assure Sam, rubbing his back a little as he pulled away. Sam took a gasp of air and tried settling.

Frodo bent Sam's neck down so he could reach up and kiss his forehead gently. He deepened it to let Sam know that he meant it, then broke away. Sam exhaled shakily—he knew he would never see Frodo again, not until many years had passed and his family had all settled with lives or a lack thereof of their own. Frodo broke away, ready not to look at the Shire or Delamarth anymore.

He accepted Gandalf's hand and walked up the sturdy, welcoming plank to the ship. He glanced back at his friends . . . and felt a bare thread of hope. He had the opportunity now to start anew. Even if all things were not mended, someone now could offer him solace. He smiled for the first time in years, letting them know he would be fine.

The other hobbits attempted to grin at him through their tears. Frodo only smiled more deeply at their attempts, then nodded to them with gratitude he never could have spoken.

 _Thank you for letting me go._

The ship peacefully carved its way out of the Grey Havens. Frodo did not look back until the last, when gentle clouds of gold closed around the back of the ship, and the shore of Middle Earth was but a dark shadow in the quickly fading distance.

He thought he could hear a voice, a familiar voice, singing to him across the glassy waves.

 _I am pleading from across the distant shore. Why did you weep? What were those tears upon your face? Soon you will see all of your fears shall pass away, safe in my arms._

The white shore of Valinor stretched out before him. A figure waited upon the soft, shimmering sand, one he recognized. His eyes widened; she did not know he would arrive, for her voice carried naught but hopeless question on a whisper of air.

"Frodo, would you have come?"

 **And here is the end of** **One Ring to Desire Him.  
** **A HUGE thank you to Diem Kieu, for reviewing faithfully and spurring me on to update on this project, and huge thanks as well to LadySoy, Alibird1, and Aria Breuer for their reviews! I'd also like to thank my favoriters, and here's a note for each of you 'cause I wish I could have had time and consideration to talk to you. :)**

 **FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirl: I don't hate Hufflepuffs; I am one! :D Tom Riddle . . . I think that's an interesting take on Harry Potter. :) Good luck with all your projects; the one I read was well done.**

 **Nightingale690: I see . . . I see . . . I see intensity upon your profile. You are a reader of good taste. ;) I hope you find the ultimate story.**

 **isaacmarble5 (sorry, it wouldn't let me add the periods . . . :P): Dang, I wish I could give you a high-five; romance and angst for the win! :)**

 **xXAyula-ChanXx: Love the profile pic; thanks so much for favoriting! I hope you enjoyed the story. :)**

 **Of course, also a huge thanks to the followers: Aria Breuer, Cre8tor, Diem Kieu, LadySoy, Nightingale690, Picas Lei-Fur, Seshat-Ra, Zoie10135, rsteen, sephchipmunk, and xXAyula-ChanXx. I hope to see you in future stories; I've seen and read through all your profiles, and I'm honored to have had you along. I count and review my followers and favorites every day; I can't stress enough how much you all mean to me. :)**

 **I bid you all a very fond farewell . . . until our next meeting.**

 **-Sev Baggins**


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